Chapter One
The room was too small for him these days. Just sitting there trying desperately to press the tiny raised buttons on the controller had been agony enough, but now he was stuck in the apartment alone with just his sorrow. But it was times like these that he welcomed his misery. Mostly it just kept him sad enough to be miserable and drunk enough not to notice. It was the only thing he had left at the moment.
His sore thumbs traveled over the buttons and depressed them as the video game gave a screech of disapproval. Spike sighed and dropped the hunk of plastic on the floor between his knees, frustrated. As he did so, he felt a twinge halfway up his arms that told him it was time to take some of the little pills Wolfram & Hart had given him. As he stood up slowly, making sure to step over the controller, he looked toward the door and sensed someone coming down the stairs outside. He sighed and reached for the pill bottle on the table.
"Need some help with that?" someone asked from the doorway. Spike turned his eyes toward the door and saw Doyle leaning against the frame. Spike sighed and handed the urban cowboy the little bottle. He shook his head and sat back down on the sofa while Doyle shook out a few of the pills.
"Do these things really work on vamps?" he asked, looking at the tablets in his hand. He shrugged, dropped them into Spike's palm and walked over to the counter.
"Guess we'll find out," Spike sighed, looking at the collection of medication in his hand. Doyle took the only glass Spike owned out of the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. "Never needed 'em before now." He mumbled, taking the proffered glass from Doyle with a bit of difficulty.
"So," Spike began, tossing back the pills and washing them down with a generous slug of water. "What's this little visit about? I doubt you stopped by to help me fish out a few pills." Doyle shook his head and helped himself to a beer out of Spike's fridge. He tried his best to ignore the glare that Spike shot him as he snapped off the top of the Miller.
"Actually, I did come by to check on you, believe it or not." he said, sipping the amber liquid. Spike just gave him a skeptical look and picked up the controller off the floor. He believed Doyle about as far as he could throw him. Which, at the moment, probably wouldn't be more than an inch.
"Uh-huh. The Power's send you another vision, then?" Spike guessed, hitting the red button on the center of the controller. Doyle smiled slightly and nodded.
"Last night. Pretty nice show, actually."
"Yeah. I bet." Spike sighed, maneuvering the electronic character across the screen. He was a little less than excited about Doyle's visit, but even less interested in his vision. Spike grumbled, sinking lower into the couch and paying less and less attention to what was on the screen and more and more attention to the pain slowing creeping through his arms. Doyle was silent for a moment and Spike was sure he was searching for the right words. Finally, after a silence long enough for Spike to lose his game a few times, Doyle piped up,
"You know, I was thinking that--," Doyle began, leaning forward toward Spike and watching the pixilated monkey jump across the screen. Spike cut him off before he could finish.
"I'm not goin' out, Doyle," he snapped. "In case you haven't been keepin' up with the sports pages, I got my bloody hands hacked off by that deranged Slayer you sent me after." he hissed, his fingers twitching with effort as he continued to press the buttons.
"Yeah…sorry 'bout that." he admitted, taking a swig of beer. Spike glanced at him in jealousy and dropped the remote again between his feet. He padded over to the fridge and took out a beer, doing his best to pop the top. He managed to do it without too much pain and took a generous swig of it. Doyle narrowed his eyes and stood up.
"You sure that's gonna be O.K.?" he asked, nodding toward the beer in Spike's weak right hand. He must have been talking about the alcohol/medication mixture. Spike just looked at the bottle critically and shrugged.
"Bugger if I know," he snapped, heading toward the apartment's door. When he reached the threshold, he motioned out into the hallway. "Nor do I care. Now, out."
Doyle chuckled and nodded, putting his free hand into his jeans pocket and taking another drink from his beer.
"You need to get out of here, Spike. Keepin' you cooped up is like trying to nail Jell-O to a tree." Doyle said, turning back to face the vampire as he stepped into the hallway. Spike rolled his eyes and shook his head, slamming the door in Doyle's face.
After he heard Doyle's footsteps retreat far enough up the stairs, Spike slumped into the couch and gave out a low moan. He let his hands go limp across his lap and watched as the fingers curled into weak little fists. The raised scarring around his middle arms was red and angry looking, making Spike want to rub it, or at least flex the muscles to make the ache go away. But, since he could do neither without a serious amount of pain, he settled for leaning his head back against the sofa and squeezing his eyes shut. The truth was, he actually did plan to go out. It had been a good solid week since he had hit anything other than the lip of a beer bottle. Even despite the pain, his fingers twitched with anticipation. God, how he longed for a fight.