Chapter Eight: Scarred

Later that night, Spike was pacing cagily along the floor of his old crypt. He was at a loss. He didn't know how to approach Buffy without scaring the hell out of her.

"You know, you could maybe, send her a note? A nice box of chocolates or something? Girls love chocolates."

Spike stopped pacing and glared at Clem.

"Okay," Clem said, putting up his hands defensively. "It was just a suggestion. No need to kill the messenger."

Clem had been living in Spike's old crypt for more than a year now, ever since Spike had left for Africa. He was supposed to just be keeping it warm for him, but Clem had sort of nested. It was now more his place than Spike's.

"What the bloody hell am I supposed to do? She takes one look at me and--" He threw his hands up in frustration. "I have to see her."

Spike turned and headed toward the door. Clem moved up and stopped him.

"Okay, so let's say you show up on her doorstep, right? What are you going to say? 'Hey Buffy, guess what, I'm not dead?' Is that going to be before or after she faints?"

"More like before or after she drives a stake through my heart. It's instinct with the girl. Maim first, ask questions later."

Spike descended the step back into the crypt, and began searching around for something to do.

"So, I was wondering," Clem began, as he watched his old friend warily, "were you thinking of keeping the new look, now that you're human? Or where you planning to revert to type?"

"Come again?" Spike eyed him quizzically.

Clem brought his hand up to hover just above his head. Moving it around he said, "You know? The hair? Were you thinking about keeping it all naturally curly or going with the bottle again? 'Cause you know, I kind of like it this way. Gives you a . . . oh, I don't know . . . sweet, vulnerable look."

Spike growled. He took a step away from Clem and stalked toward the wall, looking at the mirror Clem had installed. Apparently, even if vampire's didn't have reflections, demons did.

Spike took a long moment to examine his face. It had been so long since he had actually gotten a good look at himself. It was frightening, finally facing himself after a hundred years.

God his cheekbones were austere. He sucked in his cheeks, highlighting their gauntness. Then he relaxed his muscles and made a face.

Spike shook his head and moved closer, examining each and every feature. His eyes were bluer than even he had remembered. His mouth wry and sardonic. Somehow he didn't remember William looking quite so worldly and cynical. But he supposed, time would do that to you.

He wondered for a moment, what would happen if he tried to vamp out. It was a ridiculous notion, he knew, but he had to try anyway. He concentrated hard, contorting his brow, narrowing his eyes. Nothing happened. Of course, he hadn't expected anything, but his instinct was to at least try. After all, bringing out the lumpies had been second nature to him for over a hundred years.

Slightly disappointed, he ran a frustrated hand over his smooth forehead. It was then that he noticed the curve of his left eyebrow.

He raised a finger to it and slowly traced the dark arch. It was completely unbroken, the signature scar he had carried for years gone as if it had never existed.

"Bollocks!" he cursed under his breath. He looked like a bloody poof! No scar. Stupid wavy hair. In spite of the new worldliness he'd gained with the passing years, he still looked like a soddin' poet. That was going to have to change.

Spike stormed over to the television set where Clem had left his dinner plate from the night before. In one swift move, he picked up the knife and clutched it defensively in his hand. He turned to glower at Clem.

"Now wait," Clem said, his voice trembling slightly. "It's not that bad. I think you look great. No need to kill me." He backed away nervously. "Wouldn't want to start your life off as a human with one murder under your belt on the first day. We're pals right?"

Spike set his mouth in a grim line and crossed back over to the mirror. In a single movement, he brought the knife up to his eyebrow and sliced into his own flesh.

"Oh God!"

He dropped the knife. It hit the floor somewhere near his feet.

Instantly, Spike brought his hand up to his brow and covered the open wound. He didn't remember anything ever being that painful. As a vampire, he had had an amazing threshold for pain. As a human, he was a pathetic ponce.

Cautiously, Clem came up beside him, offering Spike a bottle of peroxide. "Thought you could use this. You know? Clean up that nasty wound, and then take care of your hair? It's amazing what a little hydrogen peroxide can do really."

Spike swiped the bottle from Clem's fleshy hand and retreated to what was left of the lower level of the crypt. Clem had never bothered to restore the place after Riley had destroyed it. A whole bleedin' year and he hadn't bothered to clean the place up! Spike shrugged. It didn't really matter. At least it gave him a place to hide. Somehow, he felt a lot more comfortable among the rubble, than he did among the world of the living. There had been a time when he had desperately wanted to be a man, for Buffy. Now that he had gotten his wish, he wasn't so sure.