Part Two:
Don't panic, mate, Spike told himself, squinting at his unexpected surroundings and running a shaky hand through his peroxide-blonde hair. Things could be worse. According to the neat pile of paperwork that he'd found on the floor next to him when he woke up, he seemed to have locked himself fairly tightly into the legal responsibility of an apartment for the next six months. That wasn't the end of the world, right? He took a closer look at the paperwork- hell, he'd even coughed up the first and last month's rent, he noted sadly, mentally kissing his beer allowance goodbye.
Scowling over the prospect of a future sans beer, Spike decided to take a look about the place. It was a fairly simple floor plan that had probably been built in the 1940s- an L-shaped downstairs that boasted a tiny kitchen, dining room, and a slightly larger main room. An olive green stairwell opened up off the main space, leading up to a bathroom, a tiny hallway, and two small bedrooms. Nothing about the place was particularly fancy, but there were hardwood floors, black-and-white checkered tiles in the kitchen and bathroom, and old-fashioned archways leading from one room to the next.
And quite a few windows.
But windows could be dealt with, he reminded himself, beginning to feel rather cheerful again. They had (thankfully closed) blinds, didn't they? Between the shades, the leafy branches of the old chestnut trees brushing against the windows, and the material he'd tack up wherever he decided to sleep, his chances of getting toasted were really rather slim. The windows would let the night in, he told himself. This... this could work.
But he didn't have any furniture. Well, he had a bed. And his chair and telly. But maybe he could use a bit more? Dust off the old credit card? After all, Spike reminded himself with a sudden, unholy grin, he still had access to Angelus's bank accounts. Back during his ponce of a sire's second stint as a total bastard, the late and unlamented Angelus had found it mildly amusing to ask the wheelchair-bound Spike to run errands for Drusilla and himself, particularly those of an intimate nature. (The memory of Angelus innocently asking him to pick him up a new set of leather knickers could still make Spike queasy.)
And here Spike had thought that those little, cutting slights would never be avenged....
So where did one go to waste other people's money on furniture at- he looked at his watch- six-forty eight on a Tuesday evening? Spike bounded down his newly acquired front steps and headed off in search of a payphone. There was only one person to call, one who seemed to know everything there was to know about wasting money.
A few minutes later, a telephone rang in the Summers household. "Hello?"
"Oi, Nibblet, that you? I need your help."
*****
Buffy was irritated. Spike was late. By nine o'clock, she had been patrolling on her own for well over an hour and there was still no sign of him. She sincerely hoped, she told herself irritably, that he wasn't sulking over her little brush-off the night before. God, he probably was. As if she didn't have enough to deal with already.... Well, she might as well go smooth things over. Taking a sharp left, she headed briskly toward Spike's crypt.
She offered a perfunctory knock and pushed the heavy door open. Marching inside with her unique It's-Time-to-Deal-With-Spike! power stride, she suddenly lost her balance as her eyesight adjusted to the utter darkness inside the crypt. Spike's things were gone. Well, not the hideously ugly chair, but his books and his candles and his bed and his mini-fridge. What... Where....
Buffy sat down hard, suddenly breathless, on the chair. Had Spike left for good? Because of her? Evidence certainly seemed to be pointing that way. Buffy tried not to think about why that made her feel a little lightheaded. It was just... just... one less thing to worry about, she told herself firmly. Definitely for the best.
But she didn't get up out of the chair for a long, long time.
*****
"Cor', pet, you sure I need all this?" Spike eyed the back of the Desoto doubtfully. It was packed to the ceiling with enormous cardboard boxes, which matched the ones rather precariously tied to the roof.
"For, like, the millionth time, *yeah*," Dawn sighed, hopping out of the passenger seat clutching a huge yellow bag with the blue IKEA logo stamped across it.
"But my chair...." Spike whined. He'd set off with the right bloody intentions, he thought sadly- namely, spending the ponce's money- but taking Dawn along had turned from a seeming stroke of blinding genius into a marathon late-night shopping session, with stops at a half-dozen stores in the greater Sunnydale area.
"No," Dawn said firmly. "Not the chair. The chair is, like, an *abomination*. Hellmouth-worthy. We already cleaned out your crypt, and you got to take the TV, remember?" Spike still looked sulky, so Dawn dopted her best lofty-teacher expression. "Now, Spike, you agreed. I helped you shop, but that meant that I got, like, final say. And I'm finally saying a big 'hell, no' to the chair."
"Language," Spike corrected absently, still mourning his chair. "Nibblet..."
"Ah-ah-ah- no whining," Dawn grinned at him. "You've got great stuff now, Spike, thanks to my waaaay fabulous taste. But we need to unload it and you need to take me home before anybody notices I'm gone and, like, blows a gasket."
Together, they yanked the heavy cardboard boxes from the car and dropped them unceremoniously in a huge, untidy pile in the middle of Spike's new living room. Spike's bed, clothes, and few personal items had already been brought over from the crypt, thanks to the combined efforts of a pair of confused vampire fledglings that Spike bullied into slave labor (and then thanked by staking without excessive violence). All that remained was the assembly and arrangement of the several pieces of furniture and decoration that Dawn had happily picked out and Angel had unwittingly paid for. But assembly and arrangement were looking like a hell of a lot of work to Spike....
"Aww, poor Spikey. Don't worry," Dawn grinned up at him, reading the apprehension in his expression perfectly. "I'll come over after school tomorrow and help you set this up." She patted his cheek. "After all, if you get a splinter, who'll help me cheat on my history exams?"
TBC
Don't panic, mate, Spike told himself, squinting at his unexpected surroundings and running a shaky hand through his peroxide-blonde hair. Things could be worse. According to the neat pile of paperwork that he'd found on the floor next to him when he woke up, he seemed to have locked himself fairly tightly into the legal responsibility of an apartment for the next six months. That wasn't the end of the world, right? He took a closer look at the paperwork- hell, he'd even coughed up the first and last month's rent, he noted sadly, mentally kissing his beer allowance goodbye.
Scowling over the prospect of a future sans beer, Spike decided to take a look about the place. It was a fairly simple floor plan that had probably been built in the 1940s- an L-shaped downstairs that boasted a tiny kitchen, dining room, and a slightly larger main room. An olive green stairwell opened up off the main space, leading up to a bathroom, a tiny hallway, and two small bedrooms. Nothing about the place was particularly fancy, but there were hardwood floors, black-and-white checkered tiles in the kitchen and bathroom, and old-fashioned archways leading from one room to the next.
And quite a few windows.
But windows could be dealt with, he reminded himself, beginning to feel rather cheerful again. They had (thankfully closed) blinds, didn't they? Between the shades, the leafy branches of the old chestnut trees brushing against the windows, and the material he'd tack up wherever he decided to sleep, his chances of getting toasted were really rather slim. The windows would let the night in, he told himself. This... this could work.
But he didn't have any furniture. Well, he had a bed. And his chair and telly. But maybe he could use a bit more? Dust off the old credit card? After all, Spike reminded himself with a sudden, unholy grin, he still had access to Angelus's bank accounts. Back during his ponce of a sire's second stint as a total bastard, the late and unlamented Angelus had found it mildly amusing to ask the wheelchair-bound Spike to run errands for Drusilla and himself, particularly those of an intimate nature. (The memory of Angelus innocently asking him to pick him up a new set of leather knickers could still make Spike queasy.)
And here Spike had thought that those little, cutting slights would never be avenged....
So where did one go to waste other people's money on furniture at- he looked at his watch- six-forty eight on a Tuesday evening? Spike bounded down his newly acquired front steps and headed off in search of a payphone. There was only one person to call, one who seemed to know everything there was to know about wasting money.
A few minutes later, a telephone rang in the Summers household. "Hello?"
"Oi, Nibblet, that you? I need your help."
*****
Buffy was irritated. Spike was late. By nine o'clock, she had been patrolling on her own for well over an hour and there was still no sign of him. She sincerely hoped, she told herself irritably, that he wasn't sulking over her little brush-off the night before. God, he probably was. As if she didn't have enough to deal with already.... Well, she might as well go smooth things over. Taking a sharp left, she headed briskly toward Spike's crypt.
She offered a perfunctory knock and pushed the heavy door open. Marching inside with her unique It's-Time-to-Deal-With-Spike! power stride, she suddenly lost her balance as her eyesight adjusted to the utter darkness inside the crypt. Spike's things were gone. Well, not the hideously ugly chair, but his books and his candles and his bed and his mini-fridge. What... Where....
Buffy sat down hard, suddenly breathless, on the chair. Had Spike left for good? Because of her? Evidence certainly seemed to be pointing that way. Buffy tried not to think about why that made her feel a little lightheaded. It was just... just... one less thing to worry about, she told herself firmly. Definitely for the best.
But she didn't get up out of the chair for a long, long time.
*****
"Cor', pet, you sure I need all this?" Spike eyed the back of the Desoto doubtfully. It was packed to the ceiling with enormous cardboard boxes, which matched the ones rather precariously tied to the roof.
"For, like, the millionth time, *yeah*," Dawn sighed, hopping out of the passenger seat clutching a huge yellow bag with the blue IKEA logo stamped across it.
"But my chair...." Spike whined. He'd set off with the right bloody intentions, he thought sadly- namely, spending the ponce's money- but taking Dawn along had turned from a seeming stroke of blinding genius into a marathon late-night shopping session, with stops at a half-dozen stores in the greater Sunnydale area.
"No," Dawn said firmly. "Not the chair. The chair is, like, an *abomination*. Hellmouth-worthy. We already cleaned out your crypt, and you got to take the TV, remember?" Spike still looked sulky, so Dawn dopted her best lofty-teacher expression. "Now, Spike, you agreed. I helped you shop, but that meant that I got, like, final say. And I'm finally saying a big 'hell, no' to the chair."
"Language," Spike corrected absently, still mourning his chair. "Nibblet..."
"Ah-ah-ah- no whining," Dawn grinned at him. "You've got great stuff now, Spike, thanks to my waaaay fabulous taste. But we need to unload it and you need to take me home before anybody notices I'm gone and, like, blows a gasket."
Together, they yanked the heavy cardboard boxes from the car and dropped them unceremoniously in a huge, untidy pile in the middle of Spike's new living room. Spike's bed, clothes, and few personal items had already been brought over from the crypt, thanks to the combined efforts of a pair of confused vampire fledglings that Spike bullied into slave labor (and then thanked by staking without excessive violence). All that remained was the assembly and arrangement of the several pieces of furniture and decoration that Dawn had happily picked out and Angel had unwittingly paid for. But assembly and arrangement were looking like a hell of a lot of work to Spike....
"Aww, poor Spikey. Don't worry," Dawn grinned up at him, reading the apprehension in his expression perfectly. "I'll come over after school tomorrow and help you set this up." She patted his cheek. "After all, if you get a splinter, who'll help me cheat on my history exams?"
TBC