Just try and profit from my wall stains and GenderStudies!demon, dammit! Go ahead. Make my day. But other than that, I own nothing and someone else does.


When Spike woke up, the first thing he saw was the writing on the wall. "Right. Watching me. Quite the show you're getting, then, aren't you? Hot, hot, hot. Play your cards right, you can see me warm my pig's blood." The late afternoon light was filtering through the edges of his curtains, but not strong enough to cause any problems.

With a heavy sigh, Spike swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood slowly. His head was pounding. Hunger. He made his way to the two burners and sink that made up his kitchen, pulled out a pan, and took a plastic bag out of the fridge.

He looked toward the window—or maybe there was a tiny hidden camera somewhere. "Yeah, nestled right in with the sumptuous furnishings and wall-hangings," he muttered. "Well, wherever you are, this one goes out to you—for all those little things you do to me."

Spike took a deep bow, and began to sway his hips to an imaginary beat.

"Let me entertain you—" One hand on hips, one pointing flirtatiously to the window, Spike sang. "Let me make you smile, I'll show you some tricks—" He twirled the bag in his hand like a piece of discarded clothing. " Some old and then some new tricks—" He ripped the bag of blood open with his teeth and blew the bits of plastic from his mouth in seductive moue. "I'm very versatile," and with a flourish, he emptied the contents of the bag into the pot heating on the stove.

"All right, move along folks, nothin' more to see." He gave the blood a little stir. "But if you're real good . . ." Spike twirled the spoon in is fingers and flipped it in the air, watching with satisfaction as it splattered a tiny pattern on the wall above the stove. More bloody like it.

". . . I'll open a beer and have a drink of it." He poured the blood into a mug and went over to his desk. Least I could do if they're goin' to all this trouble.

He rifled through the papers on his desk, looking for a sheet of numbers. Should check in with Angel and Hart, I suppose. He grabbed one, fingered it, pushed it away.

"Hell with it. If they want me to suit up for an apocalypse, they can bloody well page me. Til then, I'll leave the boss to play corporate Machiavelli and Blue to her bug-eyed stares. Least for tonight."

Beer. Spike looked thoughtfully toward yesterday's jeans hung over the back of the chair. He reached around and started going through the pockets.

"Why bloody not? Could do with a spot of company."

* * * * *

Buffy stepped out of the bathroom, black-suited and smelling seven different kinds of, er, different. Ok, so it's not the best line, but it is totally true. Beer shampoo. Musky overtones. She eyed the lemon mousse splattered over the wall where the canister had exploded after missing D'Hoffryn's head. She shrugged. It can keep the semen company. Moving toward the window, she grabbed her bag and rifled through it in search of some saltine crackers to nibble at. Food might be in order at some point, but now she needed to watch.

It looked quiet across the street. The evening sun was still just smudging the sky, but the lights were on inside. Still in, she decided. Not too late.

Just then, the lights went out. Buffy tensed, poised and at the ready. Sure enough, the door opened and the vampire climbed the few steps to the street. To Buffy's horror, he turned and looked directly at her window.

She didn't move. She had only been watching through the cracks. She hadn't touched the shade.

He started off across the street. Coming directly for her. He'd seen her. It was over.

The lamplight played off of his cheekbones, accentuating the lights and shadows in his face. He looked intent. And beautiful.

Buffy remained frozen in place. Cringing inside. It wasn't how she'd planned. She couldn't see him. Not yet. Not this way. Not on his terms. If he'd wanted to decide the terms of their meeting, he should have come to her. To Rome, or at least to the phone. Not across the stupid street to the stupid hooker hotel. Stupid Buffy.

He was already across the street.

Wait. Stupid Buffy. He was still a vampire. It was still her room, and she was sure she'd never invited him in. She ran to the door and double bolted all the locks. Her breath came hard. She was sweating.

She heard his footsteps in the hall. She would know them anywhere.

Buffy backed away from the door. Could he hear her heartbeat through walls? Would it still sound like hers even after the venti mocha latte? She ran to her bag and pulled out a fistful of espresso beans and stuffed them into her mouth. Eew. She gagged. She spat some back into her hand. Wiped it on the bedspread. Stood stock still, heart pounding, caught between window and door and trying to occupy the least visible and audible place the tiny room could offer.

The footsteps stopped in front of her door.

Fuckfuckfuck. Buffy held her breath.

The knock came. "It's me. You ready for me?"

He had got to be kidding.

Another knock. "Oi, it's me. Open up. I know I'm a bit early, but turns out I was just across the street the whole time!" He paused, listening. "I'll make it worth your while. Got some whiskey."

He sounded wheedling, teasing. Light.

In other words, evil incarnate. He was mocking her. She'd rethink the whole vengeance thing. Maybe D'Hoffryn had a point.

Because she was sure, at this moment, as sure as she'd ever been of anything.

That he had never loved her.

Or at least, that he had the worst sense of humor in the history of vampire kind.

And for either, punishment was probably in order.


Reviewers get . . . oh, wait, Executrix got this mini chapter posted early cause she said *exactly* what I wanted to hear and really, all reviews probably inspire Spike to do another bitterly ironic striptease . . .