Sunnydale, CA. Home Sweet Hellmouth. Three months later, Spike found himself back where it all began—the last place on Earth he should be. But there was nowhere else. Be it ever so humble . . .

Taking one last drag, he made up his mind to go on. All roads eventually lead back to Sunnydale, at least for him. Bloody hell.

~*~

The crypt was a dump. Empty wing buckets were stacked hap-hazardly around the room.

"Make yourself right at bleeding home, Clem," he grumbled kicking a stray bucket. "'Ello? Eh, Clem, you here?" Silent as the proverbial tomb.

Might as well clean the place up. It was nearly daylight; there wasn't much else he could do.

~*~

Clem came in just after Spike had cleared the place of over three months of wing buckets. Instead of berating Clem for the slob he was, Spike thanked him and sent him on his way.

"Hey, welcome back," Clem smiled, ever his optimistic self.

Welcome back to what?

~*~

He was making his way back from the butcher's shop that night when he noticed the door to his crypt was open. Setting his bag down, he carefully made his way in. Everything seemed in order.

The next thing he knew, Spike found himself pinned on the floor with a stake to his heart.

"Welcome back, Spike," spat the hate-filled voice above him.