Two days later after having fed off of whatever scavenger his injured body attracted until he was strong enough to drag himself from under the derelict Model T washed up on the bank of the Ruidoso by some ancient flash flood back into Sunnydale and his crypt, Spike sprawled healing in his malodorous easy chair watching Temptations, nursing a beer, cigarette a long column of ash between his fingers.
His vision was still a little wonky, but it was hard to miss the soiled piece of paper someone or something slipped under his door before fleeing.
During a commercial for some sort of newamazingmagicwondermiracle soap (dish or clothing), Earth-friendly or otherwise (Who cares? We're all gonna die sooner or later!), he got up, tossing the empty and the butt aside, and limped over to where the note languished to retrieve it.
The note was left unread atop his fridge for quite a while.
At nightfall, while emptying his fifth blood bag, Spike bothered to unfold it.
On it was an address and a time in Inelda Schnelz's crabby handwriting.
Spike, smirking around an unlit butt, sniggered. "So, the old baghag survived the simultaneous fire and flood after all."
Aaaaaaaand, oh my my my, she wanted HIM to drop by for a little VISIT. He lit up, exhaling in a long, thin blue stream, "Oh dearie dear, how utterly, revoltingly civilized of you, Mrs. Smelz - sod off, you old cow."
He crumpled the request, dropping it to the floor, kicking it beneath the fridge on his way back to his throne in front of the idiot box, happy to be an idiot for the duration. At least until his face stopped aching as the skin twitched and heaved itself back into place over the bridge of his nose where the battery acid had burned it away.
Well, maybe he WOULD.
Maybe he WOULDN'T.
Anyway, she owed him a week's wages.
So, he would.
Probably.
Maybe.
Perhaps.