Chapter Two
Several hours had passed since Spike had made his surprise appearance at Buffy's house. Since then he had gone through several bars and clubs before finally settling down in the safety of his own crypt. He arranged himself in his easy chair comfortably, staring at the blank TV screen. He sighed softly. Everything was always the same. Always normal. Always bland. Buffy would always hate everything he stood for. He was nothing more than a pet and he knew it. A slave to love, if you will. However, it somehow made him happy. Somewhere in his chipped brain, he got pleasure out of torturing himself.
It was always fun to swing by and give Buffy a little scare once in a while. He chuckled at the thought, picking up a shot of stale gin and downing it quickly. She was always running around trying to save the world. 'Or at least pretending to...' Spike thought. Sure, Buffy could fool everyone while running rampant slaying and playing her part like she had before her death; but Spike knew she wasn't in the game. Part of her was vulnerable and needy. That was the part he got to play with once in a while. He was ashamed of that almost; but he was more frustrated with Buffy pretending when she knew she couldn't fool herself or him. It bothered him that she would just hide that. Sure, no one could relate, but she needed to release it some time, right?
That had been why she came to him. She needed to let the stress go. Needed to feel a physical connection with someone. Spike was always more than ready to offer his services when Buffy wanted them, and when he did he made sure he did a damn good job. It kept her coming back, always wanting just one more time; one more release. Spike sighed softly, staring at the blank TV again. He wished she'd come by now. Dangling himself in front of her must not have made her want it that badly. Her loss, he supposed; even if it was his loss too. There was still an hour until sunrise, and, taking advantage of the fact, he went out into the cool, dead night air.
Spike climbed to the roof of his crypt in a swift motion, perching himself on the crest and looking out over the graveyard. His graveyard, he corrected himself. No sign of Slay-'n'-go or the little bit. No sign of any of the scoobies, really. He sighed, the trace of a frown finding its way into his features. Sure, they'd already been out that night, but the Slayer always came back by herself when Spike had been lurking. Something was a tad peculiar about that. He sat in serious thought for a moment, actually contemplating going over to her house and making sure everything was all right. Once his glance hit the horizon line he quickly changed his mind. Over the line of blackness, a thin line of green was appearing and spreading into the azure of the sky. He'd have no time to go see now. Not without singeing his mitts in the process, anyway. Sliding off the roof and onto his feet, he slipped back inside, pulling the door shut tight. Once inside he went straight for what he called a bed, collapsing onto it and drifting off to sleep.
Spike awoke, finding himself outside Buffy's house. He squinted, looking up at the pale blue sky. Through the tall trees sun painted patches across his chest. He felt the heat and saw the intensity but he did not burn. Standing up, he shook himself off. He had been covered in sand and leaves. His boots were muddy and the ends of his pants were wet. What had he been doing? He didn't know, and frankly he didn't care. Stepping onto the porch, he found the door open a crack. Pushing it open with a muddied boot, he stepped inside, finding that there was no barrier to keep him out like he had expected. He came into the foyer, glancing to his left. The dining room was empty. A laptop sat on the table, still open to a site. Willow must have been side tracked, he thought. He looked to his left, finding the living room to be completely in shambles. The window panes had all been smashed in; the curtains were tattered and torn. The couch was ripped from the glass. Something suggested an explosion had occurred.
He came into the room quickly, looking everything over. The TV had been smashed. The wires to every electrical device had been slashed. But that was not the worst thing he saw. Blood. Blood was everywhere. The stench was so strong it made his mouth water and his head hurt. The coppery zing could even be detected by someone who was not of vampiric nature. But where had it all come from? Then he saw. Behind the chair, in front of the weapons chest. Someone was there; or what had been someone. Afraid of what he might see, he slowly made his way around to see. The mutilated figure, which could hardly be recognized at this point, having already been torn open and ripped apart, was none other than...
Spike shot up in bed, sweat running down his face and back. Even though he didn't need to breathe he was panting and gasping. Whatever that dream was, he didn't plan on going back to sleep any time soon to find out who exactly that was. He needed a drink. Throwing off the thin sheet, he crossed his crypt to find his bottles empty. Frustrated, he threw one against the wall, only satisfied once the glass shattered. Opening a door he had put into the floor, he slid down a ladder and disappeared into the sewers, off to the Alibi for a good drink and maybe a brawl.
Several hours had passed since Spike had made his surprise appearance at Buffy's house. Since then he had gone through several bars and clubs before finally settling down in the safety of his own crypt. He arranged himself in his easy chair comfortably, staring at the blank TV screen. He sighed softly. Everything was always the same. Always normal. Always bland. Buffy would always hate everything he stood for. He was nothing more than a pet and he knew it. A slave to love, if you will. However, it somehow made him happy. Somewhere in his chipped brain, he got pleasure out of torturing himself.
It was always fun to swing by and give Buffy a little scare once in a while. He chuckled at the thought, picking up a shot of stale gin and downing it quickly. She was always running around trying to save the world. 'Or at least pretending to...' Spike thought. Sure, Buffy could fool everyone while running rampant slaying and playing her part like she had before her death; but Spike knew she wasn't in the game. Part of her was vulnerable and needy. That was the part he got to play with once in a while. He was ashamed of that almost; but he was more frustrated with Buffy pretending when she knew she couldn't fool herself or him. It bothered him that she would just hide that. Sure, no one could relate, but she needed to release it some time, right?
That had been why she came to him. She needed to let the stress go. Needed to feel a physical connection with someone. Spike was always more than ready to offer his services when Buffy wanted them, and when he did he made sure he did a damn good job. It kept her coming back, always wanting just one more time; one more release. Spike sighed softly, staring at the blank TV again. He wished she'd come by now. Dangling himself in front of her must not have made her want it that badly. Her loss, he supposed; even if it was his loss too. There was still an hour until sunrise, and, taking advantage of the fact, he went out into the cool, dead night air.
Spike climbed to the roof of his crypt in a swift motion, perching himself on the crest and looking out over the graveyard. His graveyard, he corrected himself. No sign of Slay-'n'-go or the little bit. No sign of any of the scoobies, really. He sighed, the trace of a frown finding its way into his features. Sure, they'd already been out that night, but the Slayer always came back by herself when Spike had been lurking. Something was a tad peculiar about that. He sat in serious thought for a moment, actually contemplating going over to her house and making sure everything was all right. Once his glance hit the horizon line he quickly changed his mind. Over the line of blackness, a thin line of green was appearing and spreading into the azure of the sky. He'd have no time to go see now. Not without singeing his mitts in the process, anyway. Sliding off the roof and onto his feet, he slipped back inside, pulling the door shut tight. Once inside he went straight for what he called a bed, collapsing onto it and drifting off to sleep.
Spike awoke, finding himself outside Buffy's house. He squinted, looking up at the pale blue sky. Through the tall trees sun painted patches across his chest. He felt the heat and saw the intensity but he did not burn. Standing up, he shook himself off. He had been covered in sand and leaves. His boots were muddy and the ends of his pants were wet. What had he been doing? He didn't know, and frankly he didn't care. Stepping onto the porch, he found the door open a crack. Pushing it open with a muddied boot, he stepped inside, finding that there was no barrier to keep him out like he had expected. He came into the foyer, glancing to his left. The dining room was empty. A laptop sat on the table, still open to a site. Willow must have been side tracked, he thought. He looked to his left, finding the living room to be completely in shambles. The window panes had all been smashed in; the curtains were tattered and torn. The couch was ripped from the glass. Something suggested an explosion had occurred.
He came into the room quickly, looking everything over. The TV had been smashed. The wires to every electrical device had been slashed. But that was not the worst thing he saw. Blood. Blood was everywhere. The stench was so strong it made his mouth water and his head hurt. The coppery zing could even be detected by someone who was not of vampiric nature. But where had it all come from? Then he saw. Behind the chair, in front of the weapons chest. Someone was there; or what had been someone. Afraid of what he might see, he slowly made his way around to see. The mutilated figure, which could hardly be recognized at this point, having already been torn open and ripped apart, was none other than...
Spike shot up in bed, sweat running down his face and back. Even though he didn't need to breathe he was panting and gasping. Whatever that dream was, he didn't plan on going back to sleep any time soon to find out who exactly that was. He needed a drink. Throwing off the thin sheet, he crossed his crypt to find his bottles empty. Frustrated, he threw one against the wall, only satisfied once the glass shattered. Opening a door he had put into the floor, he slid down a ladder and disappeared into the sewers, off to the Alibi for a good drink and maybe a brawl.