Chapter 4: Bodies
In which Spike hurts that which is already dead.

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Fucken Hallunda demons.

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Why couldn't they all be like good little vampires and turn to dust?

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As if it wasn't enough that they were a bitch to put down, it seemed you had to dismember them afterwards or they'd just get up again. Well, you live and you learn. Or at least you learn.

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Last one. Spike put the axe down, spat on the pile of demon parts and lit a cigarette. "There. That should teach you to stay in your own sodding dimension next time." He could use a drink right now, but he had to settle for bourbon. No, no warm blood tonight either; he wasn't big on demon leftovers, and besides, there was something he'd promised.

Just look at all these lovely blood-covered people. I could, but not a taste for Spike, not a lick. Know you wouldn't like it.

He grimaced and forced the hunger back to the same place he'd packed his other emotions. It was getting crowded in there. How the hell did he end up here? Chip in his head, fighting the good fight, protecting the innocent... well, some of'em. Bloody hell, the women had always gotten him in trouble.

A gentleman always keeps his word, William.

One of the first things he remembered learning. Of course he'd long since given up any illusions of ever being a gentleman – or indeed any kind of man. But soul or no soul, William The Bloody had never broken a promise yet. OK, granted, most of his promises of the last 100-odd years had been about killing people, but still; honour was honour and he wasn't about to start loosening up now. Not this time. Not this girl.

Always knew I'd go down fightin'. Till the end of the world. Even if that happens to be tonight.

Damn it, he'd been so sure. Full of himself, as always. Throwin' himself on the proverbial hand grenade for love and loyalty... what a way for a poet to go, Lancelot and Johnny Thunders rolled into one. Idiot. Had he even imagined Buffy shedding a few tears over the pile of dust that was him? Of course he had. That's how the story ends, right, the hero sacrifices himself for the maiden who thought she could never love him and only when it's too late does she realise... Only he'd survived the blast, and she hadn't. And here he was, dead man walking. Him and his big mouth...

Every Slayer has a death wish. Even you. Sooner or later, you're gonna want it.

Yeah, real bloody smooth, Spike.

OK, so he'd fucked up royally, but it's not like he didn't try, now was it? After all, who'd fought side by side with them, getting thrown off a 100-foot tower no less? Spike, that's who. Who'd broken into the undertaker's to nick the finest coffin they had? Spike. Who had been going out every night cleaning up the mess that was, again, not denying it, to some small extent, his fault... but still, vampire here! OK, so he couldn't rip their heads off himself, but what's to stop him from looking up some nasties and pointing them in the right direction? Who, I give you three guesses? Who hadn't even been invited to the fucken funeral? Who was treated like a dumb faithful attack dog, just have him kill things and then shut him out and let him sleep in the doghouse without even telling him where they'd buried her for fear he'd try that spell again... William Bloody Pratt, that's who. Instead they were still fawning over that ponce in LA who didn't even return phone calls. Oh yeah, he'd heard Buffy beg him, actually stooping to begging him for help, and what did Soul Boy do? A) show up and help them fight, B) call to wish good luck, or C) not a blessed thing? But still, apparently, Angel was the hero and Spike just a tool you made fun of and sent on errands. One of these days... He kicked at something. It turned out to be a demon head, and it shattered against the wall. Then he kicked at the blackish splotch it made on the wall hard enough to smash right through it... and possibly break a toe or two. Anything to stop... feeling... this... fucken... useless.

He calmed down as he heard the car pull up behind him. He didn't turn around. "Hello, Red. How was LA?"

"Spike..." She stared at the carnage.

"Hallunda demons. Seven of'em, give or take a few decimal points."

"Good... that's... good... hey, we don't want any of those running around, right?"

"I guess we don't. Too late for them, though." He nodded towards two mutilated bodies lying a few feet away. Two teenage girls. "They were feastin' on'em when I turned up. Good thing, too, or I'd've had my hands full. They're nasty buggers." He opened his coat, showing a deep gash across his chest. Willow realised he had been wearing a white shirt earlier – only it was blood red now. Most of it Spike's.

"God, Spike, are you..."

He took another slug of bourbon. "Long as none of the demons that snuck through the portal have wooden claws, there's no need to worry about Spike. Just sic me on'em like always and I'll take'em out for you." He bent down – just a little too slowly for someone trying to look like he wasn't hurt – and picked up his axe. "Unless you've located some other beastie for me you best get goin', Red. Night time is for monsters, remember? You just run home and warm up your girlfriend and leave Spike to take care of this."

He started walking, and after a few seconds he heard the car pull away. OK. One more sweep, for all the good it'll do. See if we can find that bloody dragon. Then check in on the little bit, make sure she has everything she needs, make sure they treat her right.

Till the end of the world. Even if that happens to be tonight.