Spike sat up gasping in the fast fading echoes of a dream where he watched a tattered yellow rabbit missing an ear lead a laughing black child, her intricate swirls of braids accentuated by golden brown teddy bear beads, into the darkness while Tara stared at him reproachfully, blood trickling down her chin.
Dry mouthed, he tried to stand up in a rattle of empty bottles as rainwater cascaded down from the surface of the Chavez Street overpass over him— it'd been a while since he'd done this, but he knew the drill.
A fag or six would help until he could either a.) find another bottle and fall into it, or b.) steal another bottle and fall into it, or c. ) (his least favorite option) continue sobering up until he could start assessing the damage.
He dug deep into his damp and Charlie-reeking duster pockets.
Smokes, mentholated, check.
Lighter, steel, butane… uh oh, where'd it go?
His lighter was missing.
Bollocks.
Maybe he'd dropped it.
Spike spent a woozy half hour kicking through the mud, weeds, and trash – no dice.
Double bollocks.
Best backtrack. The thunderstorm drenching Sunnydale dribbled down the inside of his collar and down his back as he tried to remember where he might have left it.
It wasn't the world's best lighter, but he'd had it a long time.
Hell, it had stood by him longer than most people, demon or otherwise.
When he'd had to, he'd put it in a sock and stun someone with it whenever finesse rather than brute force was required.
It made less noise than a double handful of loose nickels. Afterwards, he'd use it to light up a victory smoke.
There was a different clerk at the 7-11, but the pimply girl with the inflamed nose-stud and chartreuse hair hadn't seen it. Resisting the temptation to nick more Everclear and forget about everything a wee bit longer, Spike headed up the street.
The lighter wasn't in the alley behind Willy's, either. Fanging a half-thawed blood bag he'd scored from the rat-faced little owner at half-price because it was one week past expiration, Spike paused in the middle of slurping down his blood Slushie, realizing it must have fallen out of his uniform pant's pocket in last night's unscheduled dust-up.
Double bollocks with a sausage on top.
Hands jammed deep in his duster pockets, Spike moodily sloshed past Buffy on her way home from Doublemeat Palace, not even glancing her way. She stopped, turned, and frowned at him from beneath her umbrella before hurrying home, unsettled.
Damn. The outside door leading out of Parts and Service had been blocked off with a sheet of unpainted plywood, which meant he had to go in through the regular employee's entrance.
It wasn't like Spike could demand the remains of of his paycheck while he was there – no doubt the cost replacing the Parts and Service door and most of Parts and Service would take care of that, or whatever. By now he probably OWED Fazbear's Pizzaria— so much for the fun of rippin' that stupid Chicken O'Deadlet's arm off and beating her with it – or smashing that window… Fun as it had been, they'd have to get in line because Anya would insist he pay her back first – that is, if either party could catch him… not that he had anywhere half-decent to run to...
Bloody hell, all this for a soddin' lighter!
At half past nine by the clock on the courthouse bell tower after circling the block three times at a snail's pace, Spike gave the door handle of the employee entrance a half-hearted pull and with dripping hair and soggy boots, squelched in.
Fingers busy at the old fashioned adding machine beside her, Mrs. Schnelz looked up at him from her desk in the little office beside the time clock, rasping, "You're late."
Mouth working, he'd already heaved up dinner and the rest of the Everclear by the back steps, Spike paused swaying in front of her doorway, before spitting out, "Bloody hell, I'm what?" He blotted his mouth on one damp sleeve of his duster, getting a faceful of Charlie. His stomach gurgled, but having nothing left to threaten him with, it quickly subsided.
The dragon didn't bother looking up as she repeated, "You're late. And watch your goddamned language. There's a lady present." The short, broad fat woman yanked the arm on the side of the relic of a time when ledgers were filled out in ink, studied the results, and then wrote them down with a fountain pen. "Tonight's take is down," she snorted. "Well, that's Thursdays for you!"
Spike shook his head in disbelief, making his headache worse, "After what happened last night?" Still dripping he squidged over to the office and stood over her.
"Shut up, skinny butt, I'm counting." Mrs. Schnelz held up one large knobby hand in warning.
Spike stood in fuming silence as she painstakingly laid the money out by denomination and slowly counted it three times before punching it into the adding machine and writing down the results.
Eventually she glared up at him through her garish glasses and beneath her stiff, old-fashioned perm, making Spike think of a toad in drag, "I clocked you in at nine and saved you about three bucks. What the hell have you been rolling in, shit? You stink, and you look like hell. You did an all day drunk, didn't you?"
Because the Schnelz was dead on, Spike stood head down, hands on the edge of her deask with with a head that felt like Manchester United had used it as a practice ball before he finally said, "I came back for my lighter."
"Get away from my desk, you're dripping on it." The elderly office manager complained while putting down her pen, "I found it in the middle of the mess you made out of Parts and Service." She reached into a drawer, pulled the lighter out and slapped it down on the blotter between them. Straightening, Spike reached for it, she pulled it back, waving a gnarled finger at him, "Forget it, kid. You get this back after you've used the shower in the goddamned employee lounge and changed clothes – you stink." Bright magenta upper lip curled, she looked him up and down, adding, "There's clean uniforms, with Jeremy's name on it in the lounge – Laundry Service dropped 'em off this morning."
Not wanting to add to his existing headache Spike refrained from slugging her, grabbing his only reliable friend, and making a run for it. At least it was dry here. He turned, intending to head for the lounge.
"Get your skinny ass the hell back here."
Exasperated, he turned. "What!"
"Got a job for you." Schnelz dropped his lighter back into her desk drawer, bent under the desk and pulled out a loosely filled garbage bag, shaking it at him so that it rattled like it was full of pencils and maracas. "Swept these beauties up this morning after last night's little dance party before the rest of the staff clocked in. The fucking things were all over the floor; it took me all fucking morning to stitch up the fursuits you ripped open – me and my arthritis! You owe me."
Spike squelched back, hair now sticking out in all directions as his forehead, neck and ears began to itch when the half-washed out product that usually kept it subdued started to dry thanks to the space heater in Inelda's stuffy little office, "And the window? The door?"
"Insurance." Schnelz flapped one knobby hand dismissively before shaking the bag at Spike. "I filed a complaint with the police and told the adjustors it was teenagers, and that you chased the privileged little turds off before things got worse." Spike reached for the bag. She pulled it back out of his reach, opening it, "Take a gander at this, kid."
Spike obeyed, already knowing what he'd see: the loose, dried up remains of what might have been three, maybe four children judging by the number of little skulls, all mingled and tumbled together with four darkly stained plushies like the ones piled high in the gift shop up front: Chica, Freddy, Bonnie, and one other, prolly another teddy.
Well, it certainly explained the dead mouse smell of the place.
Mrs. Schnelz savagely closed the bag of small bones and forsaken toys with a clatter and shoved it at him, "Shovel's in the janitor's closet - deal with it."
Spike stood there bag in both hands, staring at her as she heavily sat back down behind her desk and began recounting the money a fourth time with as much concern as if she'd just handed him a bag of beverage cans to take to the recycler's and not one full of tiny human remains.
"While you're at it, drop this in the corner mailbox for me, and don't let it get wet or the ink will run!" Without looking up she held out a stamped white envelope towards him over the top of her cluttered desk, knocking over a picture of an elderly couple in a heavy silver frame with her elbow.
Spike absently shoved the already stamped letter into a duster pocket. The couple in the silver-framed picture looked vaguely familiar.
"It's local, not like that package I had you put in the Fed Ex overnight drop-box for me on Monday." Mrs. Schnelz laughed, a low, nasty grating sound as she glanced up from her accounts at Spike over the rims of her trifocals after righting the picture with one knobby red-taloned hand, "Nobody screws Inelda Schnelz for free! Seeing as you're only here for insurance reasons, I'll cover for you until you get back, so don't fuck around and take all night doing it!"
Spike turned, bag clattering at his side. He'd come back later after la Schnelz had clocked out and do a bit of poking around before he went back to working on his little surprise for the Finns.
"And one more thing," Annoyed, Spike stopped, looking back at her over his shoulder, "I don't know what the hell's going on around here, but I sure as hell know that this ain't no dead raccoon – put it in consecrated ground somewhere like it deserves, not the goddamned dumpster!"