It was raining when Spike set foot in Sunnydale a month later. Lying and
stealing his way back from Africa took longer than he had hoped. Almost
enough time to change his mind. He didn't care for the rain. He went a
couple centuries not minding it at all, but now he was cold and he didn't
really like the smell of wet leather. He trudged miserably through the
graveyard, surprised at how familiar it all still was. A part of him hoped
to God or whatever he was supposed to hope to these days that he wouldn't
see her. The rest of him tried not to think about it. When he reached his
old pad without incident, he gave a sigh of relief and then pushed in the
door.
"Who's there?!?" Clem shrieked from somewhere in the corner. "I told you, I'll have the kittens by Sunday," he added for good measure.
"You owe me a hell of a lot more than kittens by the looks of things," Spike replied, gazing around at the shambles surrounding him. He sighed as he realized he was standing in a giant puddle. "Leak?"
"Spike!" Clem shrieked, and the genuine excitement in his voice almost made Spike's heart grow two sizes that day. "How long have you been back?"
"A few hours. Been taking good care of my place, I see." He had barely finished the sentence when his television sparked and popped behind him, waterlogged beyond its means.
"You look different," Clem observed. "Is it the hair? It's the hair! You stopped dying your hair! No, wait. That's not it..." he took a few tentative steps closer before he realized what was different. His hair dye grew out. Dead men's dye jobs don't grow out. Their hair doesn't grow. He was...Clem gasped and took a step back, as if he was afraid. "No," he said.
"Yes," was all Spike could manage in reply. "Long story. Don't really want to get into it."
Clem's fear was instantly and almost jarringly replaced by giddy joy. "Get out! Did you tell Buffy?!?"
"No, and I don't think I'm going to," Spike decided pretty much in that second. "I think I'm just going to get my shit and get out. Do I have any shit, Clem? Is there anything here that hasn't been destroyed?"
"There's some t-shirts, I think, in the dresser. And there's some beer in the fridge, if you want." Spike sighed as he collected what was salvageable and grabbed a six-pack out from the fridge, which wasn't working. It was more like a beer cubby than a functional appliance. "Where are you going to go?" Clem asked.
Spike shrugged. "Don't know. But I'm going to leave in the morning. Hey, Clem. Despite being a spectacular failure as a house sitter...you were a half way decent friend. Thanks and...you know. Stuff," he finished awkwardly. He was surprised to find this sort of thing was even more difficult as a human.
Clem smiled and then leaned in to give what Spike imagined would be a hug, but that was a little more than he was willing to endure, so he took a polite step back and shook his hand. Then he got the hell out of there.
Spike found himself in front of a bar, which seemed to be the one place he always ended up when he had nowhere else to go. He thought he might have drank there before, but to his surprise, he couldn't really remember. It seemed ages ago. Realizing he had no form of ID and that he couldn't properly muscle his way in these days, he opted to slide in through the bathroom window. Despite being alive for the majority of the year, his constant diet of sin and debauchery kept him as lean as ever. In fact, he realized as he picked himself up off the bathroom floor that it was the first time he was seeing his reflection in ages. He still looked pretty much dead. The only noticeable difference was his hair. He attempted to dye it again once in Africa, but it turned out that peroxide burns the hell out of a persons scalp. He shrugged, attempted lamely to control a wayward cowlick, and approached the bar.
"Whiskey up," he ordered, but the bartender seemed unobliging.
"You got a bracelet?"
"What?"
"You need a bracelet. You should have gotten one at the door."
Spike looked around and noticed that many of the bar patrons and strips of brightly colored paper taped around their wrists. Drat, foiled again. Deeming the whole ordeal unworthy of his time and effort, he voluntarily excused himself from the bar and into the back alley. Where of course, there was a young woman about to be snacked upon by a vampire. There were entirely too many alleys in this town. He would have to have a word with the urban development department about that. He was a citizen now. A soon- to-be-registered voter.
Spike sighed as he peeled the fiend off his pray. The vampire was shocked at first, which aided the easy removal. Once a vampire is fixated on food, he can pay attention to little else. But now he was pissed and he wheeled around on the intruder, fangs bared. Spike felt himself instinctively attempt to bare his, before wincing in embarrassment. The vampire got in the first punch.
Spike gasped as he felt the wind knocked out of him, his teeth clamping down on his tongue. He took a moment to spit out blood, his own blood, and noted the glazed look the vampire took on when he smelled it. Spike never forgot what it was like to have that lust, to need something so badly you think you might burst. It was the memory of that feeling that made him almost invincible in a bar fight, and to his surprise, it made him reasonably effective against vampires. After a brief scuffle, Spike, who seemed to know what the vampire would do before he did, managed to wrestle him into a submissive position. He groped around the alley for a moment in search of a sharp object and found one in the form of a discarded doorstop. He raised his arm up for the plunge and then....he stopped.
He couldn't do it. The monster in him knew how to kill but the human side of him knew empathy. He knew what it was like to be on the other side of that stake. He felt a familiar nagging deep in his gut that he thought he might have recognized as hypocrisy. If he killed this vampire, he would be a hypocrite. That never bothered him before, as hypocrisy is a purely human idea. Sure, he'd throw the word around, particularly at Buffy, but he never felt it himself until now. It was a crappy feeling. Defeated, he released his grip on the vampire. "Go," he muttered. The vampire returned to his human form, not quite knowing what to make of the situation. "Go, get out of here!" Spike shooed him as if he were a stray cat that followed him home. "GO!" he screamed, and the vampire finally went. Spike slumped back against the brick wall, wiping a trickle of blood from his own mouth. What the hell was he going to do?
He was a human being with a monster's memories. It was easy to flip flop between allegiances before but now there were all sorts of complex emotions attached to it. A part of him hoped that turning human would wipe the slate clean, that his old life would be deemed invalid. That he'd get a do over. That's what the stranger meant when he said second chance, no? But it wasn't really a second chance. This was just Chance v2.0. All the old software was still there, but with added bugs and security glitches. For the first time since he became a human, he felt utterly depressed. And depressed packs a hell of a wallop when you're of the flesh and blood variety. He looked up and realized he had wandered aimlessly past the schoolyard. He also noticed a rather large commotion going on near the swing set. He recognized it immediately as a good old-fashioned brawl. Well, he had that going for him, which was nice. He took a deep breath and dove head first into the fray, swinging blindly at whoever passed in front of him and relishing every return blow. Physical pain was real, fleeting and uncomplicated. And most of all it distracted him from everything else. He had just delivered a brilliant uppercut to some body part or another when he thought he heard a familiar voice. "Problem here?"
Spike looked up to see Xander Harris standing over him, wielding a stake. Harris's eyes got wide with recognition, only to narrow again to angry slits. The last thing Spike saw was his stabbin' arm reach to the sky in righteous fury. "Bloody hell," he muttered, as he took a stake right to the gut.
"Who's there?!?" Clem shrieked from somewhere in the corner. "I told you, I'll have the kittens by Sunday," he added for good measure.
"You owe me a hell of a lot more than kittens by the looks of things," Spike replied, gazing around at the shambles surrounding him. He sighed as he realized he was standing in a giant puddle. "Leak?"
"Spike!" Clem shrieked, and the genuine excitement in his voice almost made Spike's heart grow two sizes that day. "How long have you been back?"
"A few hours. Been taking good care of my place, I see." He had barely finished the sentence when his television sparked and popped behind him, waterlogged beyond its means.
"You look different," Clem observed. "Is it the hair? It's the hair! You stopped dying your hair! No, wait. That's not it..." he took a few tentative steps closer before he realized what was different. His hair dye grew out. Dead men's dye jobs don't grow out. Their hair doesn't grow. He was...Clem gasped and took a step back, as if he was afraid. "No," he said.
"Yes," was all Spike could manage in reply. "Long story. Don't really want to get into it."
Clem's fear was instantly and almost jarringly replaced by giddy joy. "Get out! Did you tell Buffy?!?"
"No, and I don't think I'm going to," Spike decided pretty much in that second. "I think I'm just going to get my shit and get out. Do I have any shit, Clem? Is there anything here that hasn't been destroyed?"
"There's some t-shirts, I think, in the dresser. And there's some beer in the fridge, if you want." Spike sighed as he collected what was salvageable and grabbed a six-pack out from the fridge, which wasn't working. It was more like a beer cubby than a functional appliance. "Where are you going to go?" Clem asked.
Spike shrugged. "Don't know. But I'm going to leave in the morning. Hey, Clem. Despite being a spectacular failure as a house sitter...you were a half way decent friend. Thanks and...you know. Stuff," he finished awkwardly. He was surprised to find this sort of thing was even more difficult as a human.
Clem smiled and then leaned in to give what Spike imagined would be a hug, but that was a little more than he was willing to endure, so he took a polite step back and shook his hand. Then he got the hell out of there.
Spike found himself in front of a bar, which seemed to be the one place he always ended up when he had nowhere else to go. He thought he might have drank there before, but to his surprise, he couldn't really remember. It seemed ages ago. Realizing he had no form of ID and that he couldn't properly muscle his way in these days, he opted to slide in through the bathroom window. Despite being alive for the majority of the year, his constant diet of sin and debauchery kept him as lean as ever. In fact, he realized as he picked himself up off the bathroom floor that it was the first time he was seeing his reflection in ages. He still looked pretty much dead. The only noticeable difference was his hair. He attempted to dye it again once in Africa, but it turned out that peroxide burns the hell out of a persons scalp. He shrugged, attempted lamely to control a wayward cowlick, and approached the bar.
"Whiskey up," he ordered, but the bartender seemed unobliging.
"You got a bracelet?"
"What?"
"You need a bracelet. You should have gotten one at the door."
Spike looked around and noticed that many of the bar patrons and strips of brightly colored paper taped around their wrists. Drat, foiled again. Deeming the whole ordeal unworthy of his time and effort, he voluntarily excused himself from the bar and into the back alley. Where of course, there was a young woman about to be snacked upon by a vampire. There were entirely too many alleys in this town. He would have to have a word with the urban development department about that. He was a citizen now. A soon- to-be-registered voter.
Spike sighed as he peeled the fiend off his pray. The vampire was shocked at first, which aided the easy removal. Once a vampire is fixated on food, he can pay attention to little else. But now he was pissed and he wheeled around on the intruder, fangs bared. Spike felt himself instinctively attempt to bare his, before wincing in embarrassment. The vampire got in the first punch.
Spike gasped as he felt the wind knocked out of him, his teeth clamping down on his tongue. He took a moment to spit out blood, his own blood, and noted the glazed look the vampire took on when he smelled it. Spike never forgot what it was like to have that lust, to need something so badly you think you might burst. It was the memory of that feeling that made him almost invincible in a bar fight, and to his surprise, it made him reasonably effective against vampires. After a brief scuffle, Spike, who seemed to know what the vampire would do before he did, managed to wrestle him into a submissive position. He groped around the alley for a moment in search of a sharp object and found one in the form of a discarded doorstop. He raised his arm up for the plunge and then....he stopped.
He couldn't do it. The monster in him knew how to kill but the human side of him knew empathy. He knew what it was like to be on the other side of that stake. He felt a familiar nagging deep in his gut that he thought he might have recognized as hypocrisy. If he killed this vampire, he would be a hypocrite. That never bothered him before, as hypocrisy is a purely human idea. Sure, he'd throw the word around, particularly at Buffy, but he never felt it himself until now. It was a crappy feeling. Defeated, he released his grip on the vampire. "Go," he muttered. The vampire returned to his human form, not quite knowing what to make of the situation. "Go, get out of here!" Spike shooed him as if he were a stray cat that followed him home. "GO!" he screamed, and the vampire finally went. Spike slumped back against the brick wall, wiping a trickle of blood from his own mouth. What the hell was he going to do?
He was a human being with a monster's memories. It was easy to flip flop between allegiances before but now there were all sorts of complex emotions attached to it. A part of him hoped that turning human would wipe the slate clean, that his old life would be deemed invalid. That he'd get a do over. That's what the stranger meant when he said second chance, no? But it wasn't really a second chance. This was just Chance v2.0. All the old software was still there, but with added bugs and security glitches. For the first time since he became a human, he felt utterly depressed. And depressed packs a hell of a wallop when you're of the flesh and blood variety. He looked up and realized he had wandered aimlessly past the schoolyard. He also noticed a rather large commotion going on near the swing set. He recognized it immediately as a good old-fashioned brawl. Well, he had that going for him, which was nice. He took a deep breath and dove head first into the fray, swinging blindly at whoever passed in front of him and relishing every return blow. Physical pain was real, fleeting and uncomplicated. And most of all it distracted him from everything else. He had just delivered a brilliant uppercut to some body part or another when he thought he heard a familiar voice. "Problem here?"
Spike looked up to see Xander Harris standing over him, wielding a stake. Harris's eyes got wide with recognition, only to narrow again to angry slits. The last thing Spike saw was his stabbin' arm reach to the sky in righteous fury. "Bloody hell," he muttered, as he took a stake right to the gut.