Nothing. There was absolutely nothing behind those eyes. Not an acknowledgment, not annoyance, not even a gleam to hint at incredulity. For whatever reason, that scared him more than the threat of an actual reaction did. The doctor merely watched him, eyes burning with the power of the Red Sea. And there was nothing to be seen behind them.

"Heh…well…I guess...M…Mister Giles…there's this questionnaire, and he wanted me to ask you a f-few—"

That nothing was really starting to bother him. Even Spike at his scariest had failed to elicit anything more than the occasional tremble. Lecter was staring right through him as though he did not exist.

"There's…ummm…Mister Giles…he's apart of this organization th-that's conducting interviews with…ummm…" With what? What was he supposed to say here? Potential demons? Captured criminals that the Watcher's Council suspected might not be entirely human? God, why hadn't they sent Anya in? She would know what to say, and she would have it over with before anyone could blink. Not that the doctor actually blinked. Or…did anything but stare with that nothingness. "They're asking around t-to see if there's…ummm…any…" He supposed he could just send the questionnaire through and make a run for it, but something told him that the Slayer wouldn't be altogether pleased. They needed cooperation with this, even if that was something no one had guaranteed. "I'll just start asking the questions, okay? If there's anything…I…"

Something horrible hit the air. Something sharp and metallic—ringing softly like a blade swept across a plane of grass. Just enough to prick the senses but not enough to draw blood. Living in Sunnydale had cultured him to a number of dreadful things, but Andrew was quite certain at that moment that he had met the pinnacle of duress. It was a miracle he didn't lose control of his more embarrassing functions and piss himself silly.

"Andrew, is it? Are you aware just how long I am scheduled to remain in this box?"

Oh God. He was talking. Damn damn, double damn.

A desperate lunge. Andrew looked away idly and made a radical second-guess. "For life, I guess."

"You guess." It sounded like an accusation. The nothingness intensified.

"Well, they didn't exactly tell me…but this one time, Tucker was watching television and said—"

"Just shy of long enough, and yet I can't help but think of a thousand other venues that would be a more pleasant distraction than listening you prattle on. I thank you to leave me in peace. Good day."

And with that, Lecter turned and walked pristinely back to his writing table, sat down, and made like the incompetent interviewer did not exist.

What in the world had just happened?

While continuing to talk was definitely of the Top Ten Things Not To Do, Andrew was beginning to have his doubts. The man was scary, sure, but he was caged. The same could not be said for Buffy. Willow's lingering threat of newts remained a persistent reminder of what he would face should he return to the Scoobies empty-handed. Besides, he had faced Warren, hadn't he? If anything, this guy couldn't be worse than Warren.

"Excuse me," he said, attempting for indignant but coming across as pathetic. "There are only a few questions here. And it would greatly benefit the Sco—erm…us if you would…cooperate."

Dr. Lecter appeared to be sketching, and did not acknowledge his presence at all.

"Okay. Some of these are yes and no. I g-guess you could just…ummm…all right. First question: When did you first begin to notice that people looked like nummy treats?"

That sounded unprofessional. He wondered if Spike had had any input.

Dr. Lecter went on drawing. He didn't even bat an eye.

"Do you or have you ever possessed the ability to shoot burning mucus?"

Nothing.

"How would you rate your level of evil? Are you an A) The Borg B) Darth Vader or C) President Bush?" He waited for a moment before continuing nervously. "The difference is simple, really. The Borg wants to assimilate and take over everything to work for the collective whole. They work to make everyone exactly alike so they can get new Borg and…well, it's all sort of German, if you think about it. Not that the Germans are like that anymore, mind you. It was all very creepy with Captain Picard became…" Oh God. The doctor was looking at him again. Back in that glaring face of nothing. "Okay. Darth Vader is different. He's practically invulnerable, but his root is good. He was tempted by the Dark Side when he was very young, and that is something that can happen to any impressionable Jedi. And yet, he differs from other villains because he has his link to humanity. Young Luke Skywalker, who redeems him from the path he chose, giving him the chance to make amends with everyone he killed while lost to the heart of darkness. A-and President Bush simply because…well…he's purely evil." Andrew looked down again. "You can think it over, if you want."

There was a long beat of insufferable reproach. Every ion in the room seemed to freeze and direct, drawn irrefutably to the center of the doctor's heated gaze. As though he could make the child's head explode simply by staring him down. Andrew was accustomed to various scorns of resentment, and even more familiar with irritated reasoning. Lecter's scrutiny was off-putting but hardly new. He only lost himself by the intensity.

"Do you know who I am?" the doctor asked rhetorically.

Well, that was a stupid question. Insert big duh here.

"Yeah," Andrew replied sociably. "You're Hannibal the Cannibal. You killed like…a bunch of people. You eat people for fun…" His eyes widened as he recalled the conversation outside. "Though not the good kind of…not that you couldn't, but I don't think they'd lock you up because of it. Unless you became like an…eating-aholic and needed to be rehabilitated into—"

"As we established before you proceeded to so rudely not adhere my request and let me endure my abreaction in peace, answering the inane illogic marring your questionnaire is the very least of my priorities." His eyes burned. "Now then. As Dr. Chilton was so kind to inform me, I have a prior engagement scheduled to begin very soon. Needless to say—"

A note of panic spurred within Andrew, and his eyes went wide with the fear of what negative results would entail upon his person. There was no doubt in his mind that Willow would hold fast to her threat, and truth be told, he did not want to be a newt. "Dr. Lecter," he gasped. "This is really, like, super-duper important. They'll turn me into a fricken newt if I don't—"

"A what?"

"A newt."

"A newt."

"Yep. A newt."

There was nothing for a long minute—silence filled with uncomfortable shifting and the desperate avoidance of eye contact.

"You test my patience," the doctor informed him coldly. "And regardless of incapacitation, I must say, that is not something I would encourage."

Andrew's gaze remained studiously on his questionnaire. Perhaps if he didn't look up, this entire experience would remain brief and painless. There weren't that many questions…

God, who was he kidding? The predominant writer of this stupid thing was Willow, and she was the Scooby Whiz kid. That wasn't even getting around the assorted points that Giles had made about structure, whatever Xander and Anya had decided to arbitrarily add at last minute, and he knew Spike and Buffy had looked over it before placing it in his possession. That 'nummy treat' question was a clear indicator of vampiric influence.

And they hadn't even gotten around to the really important questions. Well, he could always improvise…

"Ummmm…" he began, unable to keep from trembling as he moved to the next point. "Are you…umm…have you noticed an ability to burn the humanity out of people by initiating a single touch?" No answer. He decided not to glance up. "Were your crimes at all associated with the Order of Taraka?" No answer. "Have you ever possessed the ability to dismember yourself and piece yourself back to…well, I suppose you wouldn't be in custody if that was the case. Ummm…let's see…"

"What exactly are you prattling on about?"

Andrew hazarded a glance upward and immediately regretted doing so. He felt like he was shooting a guest spot on Deep Space Nine, slowly being drawn into the endless vortex of Dr. Lecter's gaze. "Just…if any of these sound familiar…just stop me and—"

"How interesting. I could have sworn my former attempts to 'stop' you, as you put it, went not only rudely unanswered, but similarly ignored." The doctor cocked his head to the side, eyes blazing with fleeting intensity. "If I am to disclose such mindless blather about myself, I shall, of course, expect some in rejoinder. Tell me…Andrew, is it?"

"Yeah. Tucker's brother. Oh! Which brings me to question number…twelve, I think. Did you ever raise hellhounds for fun?" He paused thoughtfully. "And no, I'm not talking about Chihuahuas. You see, my brother—this one time—wanted to get back at the seniors on prom night, so he—"

"Judging by your continual references to your brother, I must conclude that you are the younger sibling." Dr. Lecter was sporting a curious little smile now, as though punning the younger man at the end of a joke he intended to leave him out of. "Do you constantly find yourself wallowing in the memory of your brother's achievements, Andrew? Do you feel the need to over-exert yourself in this rather questioning line of work you have undertaken as your life's endeavor? Be truthful now…"

Well, there really wasn't any denying that. Despite everything that had happened recently in Sunnydale, it was Tucker that everyone remembered. Nearly four years had passed since he tried to murder everyone at the high school dance via hellhounds that attacked anyone in formalwear, and that was the great incident that went remembered in his family. No one even bothered to mention the flying monkeys at the school play that were—duh—so much cooler than anything his brother tried to accomplish. Even Jonathon—bless his short little heart—had needed steady reminders once or twice, and everyone in school had labeled him as a social outcast from day one.

Thus, Andrew shrugged coyly, still doing his best to avoid eye contact. "I suppose…" he began. "I mean, no one even mentions the monkeys anymore. But that prom thing was really cool, so I can see why people…" When he met the doctor's gaze again, he shifted nervously. Lecter was regarding him as though he should be the one locked in the cage. Okay, time to move on. "Have you ever made a deal with the PTB to sell your soul in order to ascend to become a giant snake…thing?" At that, he made a face. "And if you have—ew! Jonathon told me all about the Mayor and stuff…how he had to eat those spider-things. Gross." More silence. "O-of course, you've eaten human flesh, so I guess spiders…not really a big where you're from…but—"

"And this…Jonathon that you keep referring to. A childhood chum of yours, undoubtedly."

"Yeah! Jonathon…he's the cutest thing ever. Really short. Me and Warren used to pick on him all the time, even if he did have the best ideas. But that before Buffy decided to bust a cap on all our asses." He paused thoughtfully. "Well, not really as much with the cap-busting. She's been too busy making out with her new boyfriend to really do as much of the 'busting' part, though she and Spike do make a helluva patrolling team." At that, Andrew tilted his head curiously. "Do you think it strange that a vampire slayer would go for vampires? Xander thought it was thrall at first, 'cause there was that little thing with Dracula, but we've pretty much ruled that out. Even if Spike is the coolest guy ever, I don't think he has a thrall. Well, maybe an itty bitty one. But I don't think that's why she digs the bumpies. Maybe she has a thing for the fangs. O-or maybe—"

"Do you feel that perhaps your aggression toward your comrade originated, not because of any sense of hostility, rather for your own inferiority complex?" Dr. Lecter indulged an isolated step forward. "By the reverential awe that encased your reference to Warren, I am left to conclude that he was dubbed the rather inane 'ring-leader' of whatever association you and your respected colleagues enjoyed. California, I am guessing. Your accent is very telling, Andrew, though it is notable that you do not wish it to be. You visit family in San Francisco but wish yourself miles away; always following whatever leader assumes the rightful position. Judging by your rather telling slouch and the innate anxiety you betray with every shuffle, I am to conclude that you have never had an original thought in your life. And here you are—sent down into the dungeon without someone to hold your hand and tell you what to do. Therein by, naturally, you refer to your questionnaire, lost in a sea of repetition and redundancy over material that you inherently know is inconsequential. It is guidance you seek, and the same you are lost without. Tell me… Andy…" Another deliberate step forward. He was so close that Andrew nearly forgot that the bars and netting separated them. That he was safe as long as he remained nicely against the wall. "Have I spoken out of line?"

Out of line? There was a line?

Oh.

It was becoming more and more difficult to sustain a grasp on the document he was holding. Andrew shivered notably and shook his head, turning his attention downward once more. "Okay…let's get out of the demony questions for a while. Ummm, who was your favorite James Bond actor? Warren liked Connery—big dork. Jonathon was more acceptable…like Roger Moore. But everyone knows that Timothy Dalton was the best. He had all that cool edge, got to play a rogue agent in License to Kill. This one time, the three of us got into it while we were trailing Buffy and she was all crazy drunk. I told Warren that Dalton should beat Connery over the head with his Oscar, and I stand by that! Connery couldn't act his way out of—"

"You indulge in hero worship often, don't you?"

"N-not all the…oh, look! Here's a question that Spike wrote. He's the coolest. Who would you rather shag: Marilyn Monroe, Rita Hayworth, or Kathryn Hepburn? I-I'm sure that he had a reason to put them…bah! He should've listed Rock Hudson…granted he's a guy and you're a…but still. Did you see Pillow Talk? Cutest movie ever."

Dr. Lecter's head titled a degree further, eyes narrowing speculatively. "I must say," he said a quiet minute later, "that my interest has been piqued. To what organization does this questionnaire benefit? You look very much to me like a poverty-stricken student, sent down by an assortment of friends as some fraternity prank. And though I would like to credit Dr. Chilton with the eye for the casual observer, knowing his credentials, I believe he is keen to let anyone into his good graces…as long as proper accommodations are supplied, of course."

Andrew shuffled uncomfortably. "I-I'm not enrolled in college. I just graduated last year, and I was gonna wait to…well, you get it. And we're—they—the Scoobies are legitimate in their concerns, I'll have you know! I mean, they hafta be after Warren, Jonathon, and I nearly wiped them out with our super cool Freeze Ray. Or the Inviso-Gun. That would've been big."

"These 'larger-than-life' aspirations are really going to get you nowhere. You, a tomfoolery high school graduate with no current intention of furthering his education? You, a mindless, wandering oaf that cannot help but follow whatever shining star currently twinkles the hindsight of your spectrum?" At last, the doctor had his rewarding shudder. The same that he craved from every would-be psychologist and reporter and what-have-you that ventured through a line of criminals to get to him. While true, he had a reputation for ignoring most, it was the pain he loved. And Andrew was emanating such in spades. "You will always be a follower," he concluded softly. "You cannot manage the footing to go where none have treaded before. So go on now, Andrew. Follow the path that many have indulged before and leave before life gets too real for you. For such a small boy of such small consequence, you have seemingly managed to squander entirely too much of my day, and I thank you to be left in peace. Ta, ta."

Growing up on the Hellmouth, there wasn't much that Andrew could say rightly surprised him nowadays. While he was content, even in agreement with the longstanding notion that he was a wanker, it surprisingly took a lot to get him to cower in fear. Especially if the object of said fear could do nothing but bark insults through bars and netting. Spike had scared the crap out of him half a dozen times, and Buffy wasn't any better. Her soft spot for humanity seemed to be at an all-out low ever since her friends dragged her from Heaven. And Willow—talk about a power no one wanted to mess with. While she was still in the recuperation from her brief stint down the pathway laced with the Dark Side, she had the authority to properly get his knees knocking.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter was one of the most notorious serial killers in American history. And now he knew why.

Not for the body count.

Not for the nature of the crimes.

For the man himself.

And it scared the shit out him.

What was worse, the doctor knew. He knew what affect his wording had, and he was taking every liberty out of it. Sipping at pained insecurities like so much fine wine. As though the exploited shortcomings of others was all he needed to survive.

"Pack it up, Small Bread," a familiar but oddly off-standish voice called down the narrow hallway. "The lover Wicca's are all finished. We got what we came for. Bloke's as bloody normal as they come." A moment of delayed hilarity as Spike paused unhurriedly in front of Dr. Lecter's cell, tossed the infamous man an uninterested glance that was accompanied with a brief jest his chin and the acknowledgement, "Oi, mate," before he turned back to Andrew. "Though I gotta say, 'm mightily impressed that you held your stones down here. 'S place is wonky enough to give yours truly a very minor case of the willies."

Immediately, Andrew jumped to attention, never more thankful for the peroxide vampire's existence in all his life. "Spike, he's making fun of me." He pointed at the doctor like an insolent child.

The platinum blonde snickered, eyes giving him the once-over. "Allow me to bask in my astonishment."

The boy's tone took a turn for the pitiful, and he began complaining in earnest. "Spiiiiike!"

"Hold up, mate. 'Aven't finished baskin'."

"Ah, the curious incentives of your current leash-holder," the doctor mused, eliciting a quizzical glance from the vampire in question, as well as the furthered horror of the student he had traumatized. "Mister…Spike, is it? I do not believe that I have had the pleasure."

Again, the Cockney's eyes gave him the once-over, brightening a bit as though he had only then realized he was there. "Right," he drawled in conclusion, "isn't this the prime principal sod? Don' waste your time tryin' to get my knees tremblin'. 'S not worth the effort…though the pay off might be good for a grin."

Dr. Lecter's expression almost dimmed at the prospect. It wasn't often that someone reacted to him with such blatant indifference. Even in the years before his incarceration, his voice and attitude was not often regarded with such little reverence. And while it might have been simple to discount the man's apathy as another token of today's society and the lack of morality it played upon the youth, there was something else about him…something…of the older breeding.

However, like all others to frequent the popular space outside his concrete box, the peroxide fool had a weakness. A weakness to be exploited. It was merely an exercise of locating it.

"…'s all Buffy's idea," the Cockney was saying. "Li'l minx. 'Course, I mighta nudged her along the way. 'S bloody fittin', 'f you think 'bout it. An' 'f your li'l wankerish chums 'ad been caught along with you, we woulda sent 'em down here, too."

"So…he's not…"

"Not a demon. Regular chap jus' the same as you or any of the soddin' Scoobies." Spike spared another glance in Lecter's direction. Brief and again indifferent. "Slayer's a softie at heart, really. Keep tellin' her that every bad deed can't rightly be attributed to demons. Some blokes are jus' nasty when you get under their skin. Hitler wasn' a demon. Neither was Dahmer or Gacy or Gein. Don' know why she reckoned this prat'd be any different."

Andrew was still stuck on the 'not-a-demon' part. And the means they had taken in order to arrive at such a conclusion. "You…you mean…" he began slowly. "That sending me down here was…it wasn't going to…"

Spike sighed in irritation. Again. "For the last time," he growled. "The Slayer wagered you'd done your bloody lot of lookin' up to muck-ups like this one." He waved airily in the aforementioned doctor's direction. "Seein' as you don' shut your yap 'bout bein' the Big Bad, she thought it'd be a cute dose of your own to see where the path of wonkiness leads you. Anyone could tell 'e's as human as they come."

The casual brandishing of his questionable association with other members of the human race was beginning to egg on the doctor's nerve. While he stood motionless in the middle of his cell, eyes fixated on the exchange, bemused that Dr. Chilton had allowed such an oaf into the dungeon in the first place, he could not help the furrow of anger that began to gnaw at his patience. While this tomfoolery about demons and the like was of equal annoyance, the notion that he could be so casually tossed aside with the lot of others that did their best to make life difficult for the more civilized commons of society was nothing he would willfully abide.

The Cockney radiated many things on first glance. A somewhat broadened vocabulary that had been weakened over time with the likely forced need to forget. An accent that was forced from the upper-crests of forgotten society. Interesting. The scent of cigarettes that wafted intrusively off his leather coat. The coat itself; an old model. More for the look than for style. He remembered several being sported in the 1970s, though usually those who adorned such nowadays were the same to frequent smutty vampire cults and believed in such idiosyncrasies as the Matrix and all that hubbub. The leather was worn and on the verge of pleated, and gave off the telling whiff of bar-poured alcohol as well as another substance he'd rather not place. The hair was a cry for help. The blatant cry for attention—wordlessly demanding all with a look for everyone to look at him. The gaudy jewelry he adorned emanated much of the same: several deaths' head rings and a chain or two around his neck. He did not even attempt to mask his aggravation with the boy; rather kept mention of the 'Slayer', indicating she was the same as this 'Buffy' he spoke of just as frequently, and looking all but two seconds from ripping Andrew's head clean off his shoulders.

Close but no cigar. While violence was practically screamed with every move Spike took, there was something else. That innate knowledge that he wouldn't do whatever his more primitive urges called him to fulfill.

Dr. Lecter grinned.

"Slayer was right in her reasonin'," Spike was saying. "'m a bad, rude man. Do I really need to reiterate? An' yeh—one whiff woulda done it." He paused to grin cheekily. "But it was a lot more fun this way. Come on, now. She's a-waitin', an' I don' know 'bout you, but this town makes me kinda homesick for the ole Hellmouth."

"Curious," Lecter said softly, drawing the two blondes' attention from each other and back to him, as though remembering he was there at all. As though they had fleetingly forgotten their surroundings in the midst of discussing the true nature of this visit. "You seem to be more assured of yourself than your respected counterpart, and yet your mannerisms lead me to conclude that you are no more a leader than he is. Your demeanor is misleading, granted; you seem to simply scream all the markings of a womanizer. And I suspect that is true on a level. You cannot abide to be controlled or commanded, can you? Such a notion strives as the thorn in your side…however, your repeated references to this…Buffy…betray your stamina. She controls you, doesn't she? And she is not the first, or the only woman to have assumed such a bold position."

There was a hefty pause as Spike's brows perked, blue eyes blazing for a brief second before he caught himself with a rich chuckle. "Oh, right," he drawled disinterestedly. "I s'pose this is the part where you try to get me to lay down on your couch an' gripe 'bout the big bad world? Trust me, mate. This is one cranium you couldn't crack."

"You think yourself that ambiguous?"

Spike grinned proudly and gestured to himself. "Infinite onion. Tha's me all over."

"Imagine peeling back all those layers," Andrew agreed, a dreamy look overwhelming his features. Briefly.

Both men caught his digression. Both men didn't care.

"Your accent is not authentic, is it?" Lecter pressed, head tilting curiously. "Oh no, your roots are definitely buried somewhere in Europe, but you have deliberately altered your intonation to degrade your notable status. A willful disgrace of the family? Tsk tsk. Did you have a fallout with your mommy and daddy?"

Spike snickered incredulously. "No. My pap kicked it when I was five, an' I killed my mum, thanks ever so."

Andrew blinked at him in surprise. "You did?"

He shrugged. "'Ad to. She was about to kill me." He paused thoughtfully. "Actually, come to think of it, I did her in twice. Once to save 'er, an' the next to save myself. How's that for irony?" There was a long bout of silence as he realized he had shared more than he intended. "Right then. Let's off, shall we?"

Dr. Lecter's interest was entirely piqued at this new vat of information. There was casual negligence that could either be taken as a deliberate and quickly laid-out lie, and the same could credit for truthfulness. This was a cunning one. Perhaps he had underestimated him. If that was the case, the possibilities were endless…

"You say you killed your mother?"

Spike stopped in his tracks, eyes narrowing. "No, I don' say. I did. She spoke an ugly piece to me an' I drove an improvised stake through her chest. Wha's that now, Doc? Gonna diagnose me?" He pivoted fully and spread his arms invitingly. "Go right ahead. Do your sodding worst."

"Simple prognostics," he replied. "Your accent is forced and betrays you as upper class. Skin you have yet to grow out of, and likely never will. The so-called 'bad boy' persona you have tried so desperately to adapt cannot feasibly conceal the true façade of your calling: you are lost, alone, and frightened. All in an effort to return to your Mama. The very same you claim to have killed. Your softening exterior is rather telling. Were you jealous of her social acquaintances? Spawned onward by the latent tugging of your own Oedipus complex. You compete fiercely for the attention of any woman that deems you acceptable to tag along at her side, though all are measured infinitely against the one you left behind. Your drawers at home are likely full with sloppy loose-leaf notebooks, each compiled with gobs and gobs of teenage angst poetry that, even in your progression to adulthood, you can't seem to part with. And this shames you—you tried so desperately to shed the outer layers of your boyhood uselessness, and instead assumed a persona you cannot truly keep up with. To rectify your shortcomings, you select various victims that remind you of the picture you once were. Andrew, for instance. Those barbs and insults that come so willingly from your mouth aren't directed at him at all, are they? You wish to harm yourself for the image that you try so hard to protect. The likely self-proclaimed moniker of 'Spike' completes your cry for notice. A sort of last call to wan away whatever imaged your given name brandished from birth. And you try so hard, don't you? To make others believe you relish the violence. Take pride in the kill, all the while working feverishly to conceal the truth. Should you ever encounter true brutality, the astonishment would likely send you fleeing right back into your mother's womb, which is exactly where you want to be."

There had been more truth in the doctor's analysis than Spike would ever disclose, granted except for the rather ridiculous notion that he suffered from an Oedipus complex and the laughable notion that violence would ever intimidate him. Admittedly, his resentment toward the wanker of a pillock he had been before he was sired raged true within his system, and more so for the knowledge that William was still there somewhere. Buried under more than a century of rustic antipathy. The same git who allowed Cecily to rip his heart out. The same that had surfaced last year and forced him to discover his feelings for the Slayer. Granted without William, he wouldn't be where he was right now.

In that regard, Spike suspected he should be grateful.

And again with the notion that he couldn't stomach violence. Hah! Who did this clown think he was talking to? The Scourge of Europe. The very same that had hunted out little girls in coal bins and thought it was absolutely hilarious that the old man he and Drusilla had killed had begged for mercy, which only made her bite harder. The very same who was a 'veal' kind of guy, and thought that ponce at Parent Teacher Night had been too old to eat…but not to kill. A hundred years of reining bloodshed, of shagging in red-stained snow, of hunting out Slayers because they were the crème de la crème…and Lecter thought he couldn't stomach violence.

Hundred plus years and he had seen more violence, caused more violence, than this pillock would ever understand.

"You are a right presumptuous git," the peroxide Cockney informed him lowly.

"Is that so?"

"'S right. Lookit you. Strained behind the bars, tryin' to get your ya-ya's off by drawin' out a li'l blood wherever you can. Know what it feels like, mate." He gestured emphatically to his head. "Two years ago, these government blokes decided to shove a chip in my noggin. Made it impossible for me to hurt the livin', so to speak. But—"

Dr. Lecter chuckled his amusement. "You are lost to the same realm of fantasy as your protégé," he said, indicating Andrew without breaking eye contact. "You want others to believe you so desperately and yet you have managed to find a loophole to keep yourself on the outs from performing any of these so-called acts you claim to have—"

"You think 's a claim?" Spike snapped. "Watch this." Without warning, he snapped to Andrew and delivered a punch that sent the poor boy crashing against the hallway wall. Immediately upon contact, his own head jerked back and a cry of pain roared from his throat, hand instinctively going to caress his brow. The act itself was performed convincingly, but on the surface, wholly ridiculous.

"Bloody buggering lousy waste of government sods," the peroxide Cockney was grumbling under his breath. He thoughtlessly helped Andrew to his feet with his free hand before both arms fell to his side. "Y'think I'd get used to it after a thousand or so tries. Not so."

Then his eyes traveled back to Lecter.

"There. See enough?"

"Oh yes. A rather effective floorshow."

A chuckle rumbled through the vampire's throat and he shook his head incredulously. "Y'still don' get it, do you? Prolly can't sing any number to the tune of 'I'm wrong' even when the evidence is pilin' up right in front of your cell. Stupid git. That should be the firs' clue that I'm sproutin' no fib. 'm not sodding incarcerated. Well, unless you count the chip, but I can still get my rocks off fightin' demons…" Or shagging the Slayer. He felt it was best to leave that part out. "But yeh see. You human types are all the same. Wagerin' you can pull it like us. Wishin' you were more like us. Doesn' matter, though. Y'can't dally the grunt-work so you get caught. An' yeh—you do your part to scare the locals. Hell, you've done things that had my former all but worshipping you from afar. Wanted to make you one of us, like Elvis." He turned to Andrew. "An' that was a bloody bad idea. Stupid prat can't stay outta the limelight. 'S'off in Vegas doin' impersonations of himself." Another pivot and he faced Lecter again. "But tha's all it amounts to. Scarin' the locals. Slowly makin' your mark in history but knowin' people won' remember your name when you've keeled over an' become one of the not so-dearly departed. Cor, Angelus was scarier than you, or better yet, Harmony." He took a minute to shudder before finding his footing once again. "An' for the record, mate, 've done things you can't imagine. Stuff dark enough to even 'ave a blighter like you shakin' in his skivvies when the lights go out. So don' go runnin' your mouth to every would-be that prances in 'ere. Y'never know who you might be talkin' to."

A curious brow quirked at that. The doctor remained infinitely unmoved. "Is that so?"

Spike grinned. "No bars between us? You wouldn't last two minutes, mate. Chip or no chip. I'd rip your still-beatin' heart out of your chest an' let you get a good long look at it before you kicked it. An' yeah…it'd give me a bleedin' headache for the better of two hours. Somethin' tells me you'd be dead a li'l longer than that."

A corresponding chuckle rumbled through the doctor's throat, and he fought the instinctive urge to shake his head at the ridiculousness of it all. "Your defense mechanism is really quite telling. Idle threats are so droll. For one who seems to consider himself above the normal call of societal expectations, you aren't entirely inventive."

"Inventive?" the vampire repeated skeptically. "Do you have any idea what I'm capable of?"

"I suppose you are going to tell me."

Indeed, Spike did seem rather apt and eager to list every single deed he had performed over the spans of the past century and a half, but he was experienced enough to recognize the lining for a verbal trap when he spied on. He therefore closed his mouth reverently and shook his head as though it was all of consequence. "No," he decided. "'m not at that. Let's jus' say 's enough not to let some washed-out has-been who's tryin' to get his rocks off behind his plastic prison chafe my willy. 'm not 'bout to get caught up in some ruddy pissin' contest 'cause you're bored. 've already tickled your penchant for the big bad brawl enough to last you till your next so-called victim trolls down 'ere. I think it much more fittin' that you rot away back there, knowin' you're stuck 'cause you got sloppy. Jus' rest assured, mate, 'f I wanted to, I could make you beg me not to kill you."

"Is that so?"

A conspiratorial little grin sprouted across the vampire's lips and he jested for Andrew to start up the hallway, not reacting to the awe-inspiring look flashing reverently across the boy's face. "They don' call me William the Bloody for kicks," he said with a shrug. "Oh, an' for the record, 'Spike' is a nickname that was given, not assumed. Li'l perk to torturin' blokes with railroad spikes. Load o'fun. You should try it some…oh wait. Y'can't." His grin broadened. "You are a right piece of work, though. Can see why you scare the li'l kiddies. I like you. Point of fact—"

"SPIKE!"

The cry was so abrupt that it took all three men a minute to note the sudden presence of an irritated Slayer. The look she delivered was not at all happy; her arms crossed and eyes glaring.

"Uh oh," Andrew whimpered. "She looks angry."

"Indeed," Lecter agreed. "Somebody is in trouble."

Spike glared at him, but the effect was lost as his lady neared. She promptly ignored all commentary made on her behalf and marched up to the gathering. "I agreed to let you come down here and get Andrew on the note that you wouldn't start socializing."

"So sorry, luv," the vampire retorted in a tone that indicated he was anything but. "Got distracted." He waved generally at the doctor. "Bloke thinks he's scary an' what all. Jus' wanted to set 'im straight."

She didn't even spare the aforementioned madman a glance. "Well, while you've been down here comparing notes on how to be the better sociopath, I've had to deal with that little weasel Chilton upstairs. And GOD, if he propositioned me one more time—"

Spike's eyes widened comically. "That wanker hit on you? Right, luv. Let's go. I'll—"

"I told you he sounded 'come-ony' on the phone," she reminded him, eyes narrowing. "And no, we're not going to do the slayage thing. He's—regrettably—human, and it's your own damn fault for spending a half hour down here in the first place. I had to go get Anya to keep him distracted. And hey—you know they don't typically like having so many people down here at once. It tends to get the prisoners riled up."

As if to support this claim, the inmate next to Lecter's cell suddenly emitted a longstanding wail.

Spike chuckled in spite of himself. "So Demon Girl's keepin' the prat company? Wish we brought a camera. Cor, that chit knows how to make yours truly blush. Chilton prolly wouldn't know where to begin takin' her up on her numerous suggestions."

"Buffy!" Andrew complained from behind the vampire, waddling forward so that she could see him. He looked very much like an insolent child. "Spike said that you didn't need me to come down here in the first place. That Willow—"

"Did a demon sweep and everything came up as of the neg. Well, except for Spike, of course," the Slayer confirmed, deliberately ignoring the shit-eating grin he flashed in the doctor's direction. "But the Scoobies all agreed that it was better if you got a taste of what it is you worship so adamantly. Our having to investigate this creep was just a fortunate turn of events."

"I must admit that I am rather enthralled by this constant furrow of demonology," Dr. Lecter said softly, reminding everyone of his presence. The continuous flow of people who stood in front of his cell, talking quietly to themselves and ignoring him at all costs was more than vexing. "And though I would not discredit Dr. Chilton's liking for any sort of attention, not to mention publicity, the subject tires."

Spike immediately glanced back to Buffy and began fidgeting like an anxious child. His eyes were alight with unspoken question. "Can I?" he begged. "Please?"

"Spike…"

"Come on, Slayer. Where's your sense of fun? Stuck up your arse like that stake the size of bleedin'—"

"SPIKE!"

He grinned devilishly, and everyone could see her resolve wavering.

"Oh, fine," she grumbled airily, moving away as to give him room for something that required no movement at all. "But make it quick. I don't want to leave them alone too long."

"For Chilton's sake or Anya's?"

She paused and thought about it for a minute. "Both."

The peroxide Cockney turned back to Lecter, eyes dancing merrily. "Buckle up, mate," he snarled. "Wanna see what a real demon looks like?" He left little room for consideration before allowing his face to shift easily, bumpies emerging with such ease that it amazed him at times how much he took for granted. The animalesque roar that perturbed the empty hall—all for the other inmates who stirred at the first sign of real activity—was more for effect than need, but he savored it all the same.

Dr. Lecter's expression did not change, but to the sight laid out before him, he had absolutely no words, and the notion was something he thoroughly abhorred. There was simply nothing to say.

"Right," Spike drawled gleefully. "Might wanna know who you're talkin' to before you start sproutin' off bunch of buggering theories. An' as a bloke who's at least seventy-five years your senior, I gotta say…you should really pay more respect to your elders."

"'I find your lack of faith disturbing,'" Andrew quipped.

"All right, all right." Buffy grasped her boyfriend by the elbow and tugged him after her—his features melting back to human at her touch. "Spike, you've made your point. I think Dr. Lecter's other appointment arrived about ten minutes ago, so we better make ourselves of the gone."

"Right," the vampire agreed. "My work 'ere is done."

The three made it as far as the next cell when the previously docile inmate suddenly reeled to life, insisting that he could smell the Slayer's cunt. Immediately, Spike snarled to life and made a bold move to defend his lady's honor.

"You wanna make somethin' of it, mate?" he growled. "Keep your nose pointed in someone else's direction an' leave the bird out of this."

"Spike, chill." Buffy said disarmingly, again bringing him back to himself. "Crazy guy, remember? Probably doesn't even know what he's doing."

"Right…" the vampire said with an unconvincing nod. "So sorry." He turned back to the rambling lunatic, a predatory grin crossing his lips. "'F you think smellin' it's so great, 's too bad you'll never get a chance to taste it."

"SPIKE!"

He chuckled unworriedly and sprinted up the hallway, followed by an irate Slayer and a furiously blushing Andrew, leaving Dr. Lecter without so much as a farewell to prepare for his next endeavor.

Hopefully, the aforementioned Clarice Starling would show a tad more class than the act she had to follow. For whatever reason, Dr. Lecter found the prospect to be not at all challenging.