SUMMARY: Spike drowns his sorrows at Caritas after losing the gem of
Amara.
SPOILER WARNING: None set AtS Season 1, immediately after 'In
The Dark'. (Does
include references to 'The Gift')
RATING: PG 13
DISCLAIMER: "The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant
Enemy, Kuzui,
Sandollar, and David Greenwalt Productions, 20th Century Fox, and whoever
else may
have a hold upon them. The situation is wholly mine, and I do not mean
to infringe upon
any copyrights."
NOTES: Big thanks to Kassie for Beta-ing the initial draft and to Herself
and the Bitches
for all their encouragement.
FEEDBACK: That would be a big fat 'yes'.
No more bloody partners from now on. Definitely not. People always let
you down one
way or another and he was damned if he was going to be made a fool
of again. Well, he
was pretty much damned anyway, but that wasn't the point. From now
on it was going to
be just him, a lone wolf, a silent shadow, your worst nightmare made
flesh, a flash of fists
and fangs in the darkness. A bloody kiss before dying. None of this
Laurel and Hardy
bollocks.
This whole martyrdom thing really, really got on his wick. Hanging there
like bloody Saint
Sebastian, or whoever that fella with all the arrows in his gut was,
like a poncy great
hedgehog. With hair gel. It just *killed* him, all this turn-the-other-cheek
bullshit Angelus
was pulling these day. Time was when Angelus would have flayed the
cheeks right off a
person and stood laughing in their blood. He realised as soon as he'd
got Angel strung
up that somehow the balance of power was still with the older vampire,
and that just
pissed him off no end. Thought: He's just *loving* this The Scourge
of Europe doing
penance, all
"look-at-me,-I'm-so-sorry-for-all-the-maiming-and-butchery,-look-at-me-hanging-here-all-beautiful-and-guilt-ridden,-paying-for-my-sins."
Bastard.
Remembered strutting around while that treacherous fucking torture demon
did his thing,
taunting his Sire and waiting for the rush to come the anticipated
exhilaration at having
the poncy great lummox trussed up and at his mercy, being able to punish
him at leisure
for all this *shit.*
But the rush never came. Which really sucked, because it ought to mean
something that
he had Angelus in chains and screaming. (God knows he'd spent enough
hours bleeding
in manacles himself, suffering for his Sire's pleasure. Well, Grand-Sire
if you wanted to
be pedantic about it. But still.)
It shouldn't feel so - cheap. So futile.
That's for Dru, you bastard, he thought to himself as Marcus obligingly
jammed a hot
poker into Angel's smooth white flesh. (Creepy little bugger, that
Marcus. *Treacherous*,
creepy little bugger. Christ, you really couldn't trust anyone.) That's
for taking her from
me overnight, wiping out a century of her and me just by walking back
in the bloody door.
And that's for leaving us in the first place. That's for leaving me,
you self-righteous
sonofabitch. I'm going to have that gem and I'm going to walk in the
sunshine and maim
and slaughter and then go for a nice walk on the beach and eat ice-cream,
while you're
lurking in the shadows like the whiny little poof you are.
That's for leaving me.
It all tasted of ashes. And then Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber arrived
and it all went
to Hell in a hand-basket.
* * *
"O pos. Make it a double. No, bugger that for a game of soldiers
I'll have a large Jack
Daniels."
Spike had searched every inch of the damned warehouse, and there was
no denying that
Marcus had stolen the gem. Accordingly, he had spent the remaining
hours of sunlight in
a futile search for Marcus (because even though he knew perfectly well
that the wretched
vamp would be living it up in direct sunlight somewhere, he had to
do *something* and
prowling bad temperedly through shadowy alleyways and sewers was the
best he could
come up with) culminating in his arrival at the first demon bar he
could find, gem-less,
Marcus-less and thoroughly pissed off. It was early evening yet, but
there were quite a few
customers already mostly demons but with a sprinkling of thrill-seeking
humans. Bar
snacks. Nice.
Ramon, the bartender, looked at the vampire quizzically to see if he
planned on changing
his mind again in a hurry.
"You could go for a cocktail best of both worlds," he suggested
helpfully. "Bloody
Mary's popular, but some guys like rum or Jack Daniels with blood,
something like
that?"
Spike, rummaging bleakly through his pockets for a lighter, looked up
at the bartender
with a sudden smile.
"Hell yes. I'll have a large Bloody Mary. None of that Pig's blood crap,
mind you, I want
the good stuff. . . do you do buffalo wings?"
* * *
He'd heard about this karaoke lark, of course, but this was the first
time Spike had found
himself actually in a karaoke bar. Didn't realise that demons went
in for that sort of thing,
but then there were a helluva lot of demons in Japan, now he came to
think about it, so it
maybe figured. There were presently three Skilosh demons clustered
round the
microphone solemnly singing "I've got you under my skin" with a complete
disregard for
little things like notes, rhythm and melody. Spike was pissing himself
laughing at them
when a green demon in a shiny red suit sidled up to him.
"Sorry, Cheekbones, but I'm going to have to have you thrown out if
you don't play nice
with the other kids," said the demon good-naturedly. "I mean, you're
right, you're right
they've got all the musical sophistication of a moose in heat. A tone-deaf
moose in heat.
But if you don't keep it down I'll be forced to have you kicked out
on your cute little ass.
And I'd much rather be able to admire it from across the room, so *please*
try to restrain
yourself a little, precious."
Spike considered taking offence, but realised on balance that he really
couldn't be arsed
to. It was so much easier to stay here than to get into a big row and
then slouch off in
search of another boozer. He looked the green bloke up and down thoughtfully.
"This your place then, Horny?" he inquired.
The green demon positively pouted. "You'd better not start using soubriquets
like *that*
unless you expect me to get all Mae West," he said, batting his eyelashes.
"Just call me
The Host. You're new in town, I take it?"
Spike nodded. "Just passing through." He nodded over at the Skilosh
demons, who
were nearing the end of their song. "Mate, I gotta tell you - I've
seen and heard a lot of
horrifying things in my time been responsible for most of them,
actually - but this really
takes the biscuit. Don't it drive you up the wall?" The Host gave a
little grimace.
"Well, I'm not exactly expecting any of them to be discovered by A &
R men for a major
label anytime soon although Koth over there has a gorgeous voice,
sounds more like
Aretha than Aretha does." Spike followed the green demon's gaze to
stare incredulously
at something with pincers like a crab and entirely too many legs. "But
music's music.
And besides, they need to sing for me if I'm going to read them properly."
Spike took
another sip of his drink while he processed this statement.
"So what are you meant to be then, pet, some kind of demon fortune teller?
You got
yourself a set of crystal balls hidden in that red suit?"
"Give the boy a gold star," replied the green demon, accepting a glass
from the
bartender. "Ramon, you are a *treasure*. Mmm·just the way I
like it. Yes, my
pointy-toothed friend, I do tell fortunes, but as for the contents
of my Calvins, crystal or
otherwise, that's for me to know and you to wonder about. We're quite
the fresh prince
of no air, aren't we? But yes, I do have a modest little gift from
the Powers That Be. I try
to set people on their paths but they have to sing first for
me to be able to read them
properly, so if you'll excuse me, I have to go and have a word with
the three stooges over
there now that they've finished delighting us with their musical stylings."
He raised his
voice as he headed towards the stage. "Wasn't that marvellous, boys
and girls? Let's
hear it for Zan, Gath and Hayzar! And now I think that Liz is going
to give us 'I need a
Hero'."
Spike watched The Host depart and thought about Paths and about The
Powers that Be.
While he thought, he ordered another drink from the obliging bartender.
Liz, who turned
out to be far less feminine and far more scaly than one might have
hoped, mounted the
stage and segued valiantly into the song. The very best that could
be said for Liz's
performance was that it was enthusiastic, but Spike contented himself
with an expression
of incredulity broken by the occasional contemptuous snort rather than
actually laughing
out loud this time. He was thinking.
The Bloody Mary was bloody good, no question about it. He had another.
And then
another.
* * *
Actually, Spike really couldn't understand why he hadn't tried karaoke
before now. The
spotlight, the attention, the opportunity to posture and strut with
a microphone·it could
have been designed expressly for him. His rendition of "My Way" would've
done Sid
proud. He'd moved onto beers and was holding a bottle of Czech Pilsner
(hated the
goddamned Czechs, but they did know a lot about beer) in one hand and
a cigarette
pinched between two fingers of the other, which was wrapped round the
microphone. He
punctuated his song with alternating slugs of beer and smoke. He felt
*terrific* - talk about
catharsis, all those whinging sods on the talk shows who thought *they*
had dysfunctional
families just wanted to get a microphone and yell at the top of their
lungs. God, he was
buzzed!
The audience - who may have made the mistake of expecting an homage
to Mr Sinatra
rather than to Mr Vicious - seemed slightly shell shocked when Spike
finished. Or it could
be that he'd rendered them temporarily deaf. After a slight pause they
began to applaud
hesitantly, possibly in the hopes it would appease him and get him
off the stage. It
worked. In a much more ebullient frame of mind, Spike bounced over
to the green demon
and flung himself into the chair next to The Host to get his fortune
told.
The Host looked at the blond vampire narrowly over the rim of his glass.
"My eardrums are going to take weeks to recover from that," he said
in an even voice.
"And as for your *aura* move over Northern Lights, that's all
I can say. Aren't we the
pretty little poster child for Oedipal complexes? Although there's
definitely a splash of
Electra in there too·either way, I certainly wouldn't want to
be there for Christmas
get-togethers at *your* place, honey."
Spike shrugged cheerfully and swigged his beer. "We're vampires, mate.
It's not
exactly 'The Waltons', you know. But sod the lot of 'em I'm not
a pack animal, I'm a
man-eating demon, for Christ's sake - a solitary predator, a lone wolf.
. . I'm a
goddamned tiger. So tell me my fortune, Kermit but it'd better
not involve meeting a tall
dark stranger and taking a long journey overseas, 'cause I've been
there, done that and
splattered blood all over the sodding T-shirt. OK?"
"Methinks the lady doth protest too much. . . newsflash, sugar, you
aren't over them.
You're never going to be completely over them. But I'm not seeing any
tall, dark
strangers in your immediate future." The Host smiled. "Quite the opposite,
in fact.
Anyway, you're about to, ahem, come into money from an unexpected source
and I'm
also getting some powerful unfinished business vibes, and I do mean
*powerful*. I'm
seeing heartbreak round the corner - there's a pretty little blonde
thing you've left in
Sunnydale, isn't there? She's really gotten under your skin, that one."
Spike looked
bemused.
"Harm? Silly little cow. I mean, she goes like a bunny but I've never
met a more irritating
female in my entire unlife. And if you'd met my immediate family you
would realise that
really is saying something. I haven't broken her heart. Tried to stake
it, mind you, but I
haven't broken it. I don't think. Actually, I really don't give a toss
whether I've broken her
stupid bleeding heart. And as for her breaking mine you have
got to be having a laugh,
pal. The hell with Sunnydale I'm not going back there anytime
in the next hundred
years." He scowled petulantly. "Flaming Slayer's in Sunnydale, isn't
she? Why would I
go back there?"
The Host directed a very knowing look in Spike's direction.
"Whatever you say, Cheekbones. I just say what I see. And I'm seeing
some interesting
times ahead and some pretty big changes. Quite the makeover, power-wise.
As for the
Slayer well, the good news is that a whole lot of misery is heading
her way and I
promise that you are going to be right there when it happens. And what's
more, you're
going to be there when she dies."
Spike nearly dropped his beer.
"Dies?" he exclaimed, astounded. "Muffy the Vampire Layer is going to die? Soon?"
The Host's expression was difficult to read, but he nodded. Spike felt
a surge of
exhilaration laced with·something else that he couldn't just
put his finger on at the minute.
"Ha!" he said, because it seemed appropriate. "And I'm going to be there?
Am I going
kill her?"
"More or less," said the green demon carefully. Spike was stunned. For
some reason he
didn't feel as delighted as he'd expected to in this situation, but
he thought that was
probably just because it hadn't sunk in yet.
"Ha! That'll bloody well teach him to pinch my bird, the mopey great
pansy! Nice one,
Kermit! Anything else I should know?" The Host looked thoughtful for
a moment and then
smiled.
"I know you've got your black leather panties in a bunch about losing
that gem and
missing out on all those sunrises - but I can tell you that once The
Slayer is dead you will
have nothing to fear from Dawn. You need. To get back. To Sunnydale.
Am I making
myself clear yet?"
The vampire was speechless. His forgotten cigarette had burned down
to nothing while
the green demon revealed Spike's glittering future. An awed expression
on his face,
Spike downed the last of his beer, stubbed out the smouldering fag
butt and then rose a
little unsteadily to his feet.
"Yeah, clear as crystal, pet. Right," he said purposefully. "I'll be
off then. Places to go,
people to kill."
The Host watched Spike stalk off through the bar, black duster flapping
importantly, and
grinned to himself.
"I should write fortune cookies," he said smugly. "You're certainly
going to be one
surprised bunny·but it's what you want, really. You just don't
know it yet." He glanced
down at his empty glass disapprovingly and waved at the approaching
bartender. "Oh,
Ramon? Another·oh, you read my mind. If I'm not careful you're
going to be doing the
fortune telling around here."
Sipping his fresh Seabreeze appreciatively, The Host turned his attention
back to the
stage.