He stormed back to his headquarters and flung open the door. "Everyone! Come over here, now!" Within moments, the majority of the pack had surrounded Spike and was receiving his instructions. Some minions were to locate the ones who had gone out hunting and bring them back. Others were to begin packing up their belongings. The rest were to go ahead to the new base Spike had selected and make sure it was ready for the big move.
"Hey! You!" Spike pointed to a dawdling minion who had managed to get on his nerves within the first minute. "Bring me that chair. Not the plastic one; the wooden one." The minion hesitated, and then slowly retrieved the item. Spike smashed it on the floor, selected a jagged piece of wood, and rammed it into the other vampire's heart. After the explosion of dust cleared, he announced, "That's what happens when you don't move fast enough. All of you, *go*!"
The room was cleared before he could count to 10. For the next few hours, Spike remained downstairs to supervise. He only had to dust two more minions during that period, which wasn't too bad. The others, fearful of their master's dismal mood, scurried about gathering up and toting out all boxes of supplies that had been deemed too important to merely abandon in the warehouse. Eventually, the last room to be cleared out was his own. Spike had ordered that no else one enter it. He had definite plans for the remaining contents.
He loped up the stairs and into the room, positioning a large cardboard box in the center of the floor. Then he began throwing items into it: poems, sketches, photos, anything that reminded him of Buffy. He topped off the box with his composition textbook and assignments. He thought he had everything. One more check of the room and he would able to leave, forever. Then Spike's eyes fell on an envelope lying on the floor. He had never opened it, but it contained the prize he had won at the Halloween costume contest. He snatched it up and added it to the pile. Satisfied that he had collected everything he needed, Spike grabbed the box and lugged it out, leaving his room for the last time.
*****
On Tuesday, despite patrolling for an extra hour, Buffy saw no signs of Spike. She proceeded to composition class on Wednesday with the hope that he would at least show up there. She even turned up early in case he did, too. But as class began, no Spike was present. Buffy clung to the possibility that he might come in late, but no such luck. She slumped low in her seat and prepared to wait out the hour until the instructor dismissed the class and she could retreat to the privacy of her dorm room.
"All right, class, you all have your papers ready, right?" Buffy glanced down at the theme she had thrown together the previous night. "Good. I'm going to put you in pairs so you can read and evaluate each other's work. We have Erin Andrews and Amber Bast; Tim Black and Chris Broski; Rick--"
Buffy tuned out the words, absently fiddling with her pen. She'd love to simply walk out of class rather than endure the full hour, but she was trapped.
"William Stafford and Buffy Summers," Dr. Petrovski continued.
Buffy's head snapped up. Had Spike entered when she wasn't looking? She wildly checked around the room, only to realize that he was still nowhere to be seen. She sank back into her seat, willing the time to pass quickly. Instead, every minute felt more like an hour. Buffy had never been more glad to escape from a classroom when the time finally came. She bolted outside and nearly collided with Willow, who was lurking in the hallway.
Steadying herself against the wall, Willow eagerly demanded. "Did you get a chance to talk to Spike?"
Buffy shook her head. "He wasn't in class today. He obviously didn't want to see me."
"Oh." Willow looked thoughtful. "Well, you know, it's only been a couple days. I bet he shows up on Friday."
"You think so? Why?"
"Spike's stubborn. He doesn't give up easily."
The more Buffy thought about it, the more convinced she became that Willow was right. Spike was definitely mad at her, but he was bound to turn up on Friday. Then she would have an opportunity to apologize and explain her actions. And who knew? She might even run into him on patrol before then.
For the next two days, Buffy kept extra alert for any trace of Spike. She saw none, which was disappointing, but she knew her big shot would come on Friday. He would turn up in class. He had to. That day, she waited until the last minute and then entered the room with a strong feeling of confidence. She paused inside the doorway and the other students' faces, looking for Spike first so she could sit by him. No Spike... no Spike... no Spike... She finished the last row and he wasn't there, again!
"Buffy, will you be joining us today or are you just going watch us all hour?"
Dr. Petrovski and her classmates were staring. Buffy stared back. She wasn't going to waste her time listening to another boring lecture. Not today. She turned on her heel and fled.
Spike was more than just a little angry, she had no doubt now. He must be furious. So much for waiting for him to come to her. She had to see him as soon as possible to try to straighten out the situation. Textbooks and all, Buffy darted across campus and proceeded at top speed toward Spike's lair. She'd only been there once, the night Parker had drugged her and Spike had rescued her, but she remembered the way with no trouble. Spike was probably there. Or if he had gone out his minions should all be home, trapped by the daylight. She would make one of them tell her where she could find Spike. Within the hour, they would have discussed and resolved matters.
A few minutes later, Buffy arrived outside the grimy warehouse. She threw her books down and shoved the door open, a little surprised that it wasn't locked. The inside of the place was both dark and disturbingly empty-looking. In fact, *too* empty-looking. Odds and ends of furniture lay scattered about, like they had been shoved around by someone who was in a hurry. And then she saw it. In the middle of the cement floor stood a large pile of ashes and charred bits of whatever had been burnt.
With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, Buffy crept closer to the remains. She identified the spine of Spike's composition textbook, the metal spiral of his notebook, and his handwriting on a scrap of paper that had escaped the carnage. It was another poem about her. Spike had burnt it. To be more precise, Spike had apparently burnt anything that had any connection to her.
The inescapable conclusion? Spike wanted nothing more to do with her.