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Slightly shaking and not remembering how he got there, Spike presses his back to the doorjamb and then slides down to the floor. The taste of blood is in his mouth, and he’s pretty sure it’s not just because he’s been biting the insides of his cheeks. He flashes on a rosy-cheeked young couple he’s got tied up just far enough apart so they can’t touch each other. He’s got a poker in one hand and he’s running his tongue over the sharp points of his vampire teeth as he paces in front of them, trying to decide which one he wants to play with first before he drinks their blood. Because in the end, it’s always about the blood.
Even though he doesn’t need an invitation, he doesn’t like entering a residence without one. The whole concept made sense, really, in that sick way logic did. The people who wouldn’t enter without an invite were ones who didn’t physically need one. He flashes to images of plump little girls in crisp white dresses being swooped up into their parents’ arms and into their homes as the town church bells rang for sundown. The best meals would only come out and play in the day and stay inside like good little souls. And that’s why they got to keep theirs.
Spike slaps a palm to his forehead, wincing, eyes tightly closed. He shakes it off after a minute and tilts his head to the side, resting it against the closed door. He hopes it hadn’t made a sound. Wouldn’t want it to sound like he was knocking to come in. Like some sad little kitten that got out and wants back in but can’t reach the doorknob. He flashes to the image of a young man cracking the backdoor open and reaching out to set a saucer of milk on the back stoop. And then his senses were filled with that smell of terror as an arm is jerked, a body is pulled, and the taste of young blood rushes through him.
“Fuck,” he mutters. His hand dives into his pocket for his pack of smokes. There are a couple missing and he can hear the remaining cigarettes slapping together in the box, though there’s only room for one to slip out the top. He flashes to a horseless stable. Doors barred shut, moonlight streaming through the cracks in-between boards. They’re scrambling to get out, trying to squeeze. One of the little ones manages it but even if the others could fit, they wouldn’t make it. They’re too slow, too stuck. And already several are dead. They’ll all be so by morning, even though the barn’s packed full. They’re just waiting to be chosen, picked off one-by-one until the stench of death overpowers that of the hay.
He thumps the pack against the butt of his hand until a cigarette slides halfway out. He pulls it the rest of the way, and somehow it seems longer than normal. It feels like an eternity until he gets it to his lips, which press lightly to hold it there as a hand reaches into his pocket to fumble for his lighter. The pockets are so deep, deep enough to hide stakes in. He flashes on her body like chocolate and strawberry sauce melting on the dirty grey floor of the subway car. The coat is warm from her as she was warm from the fight. She is warming him inside and out now, as his cool skin tingles at the new item of clothing. Truly his triumph lay not just in staying alive and defeating the slayer, but in feeling her throughout him and taking her over.
Spike’s stomach feels sick and the cigarette falls from his opening mouth and into his lap. He swallows hard, suppressing the urges and a shaky hand retrieves his cigarette. His palms are getting sweaty and the cigarette lighter slips, so he grasps it tighter as he tries to start a flame. His thumb moves repeatedly over the starter, and the familiar flick and click sound but there’s no flame. It’s probably been empty for weeks since he can’t remember the last time he smoked, but he can remember that fire in Frankfurt. Drinking blood makes him feel warm and alive, and damn if the fire doesn’t do the same. It laps at his cheeks as he struggles against his restraints. It makes him feel vulnerable and mortal for a few moments, and the strength to break free and fight his way out of the mob is because of his fear of losing what he is. It’s the fear of dying. And he’s determined to make sure every one of them feels it for a very long time before he kills them.
“Double-fuck,” he says, fingering the pack then shoving it back into his pocket.
Spike turns the cold silver lighter over in his hand, regarding it for a moment as it catches the light. Then he pulls back and throws it all the way down the hallway. It lands a few feet from the garbage chute but Spike doesn’t get up. Someone else can throw it away properly if they’re so bothered. He flashes on a woman taking her restaurant’s nightly trash out to the dumpster at the end of an alley, and then on her limp body being tossed rag dog-style into that same dumpster. He flashes on a man in a street cleaner, unable to fight back because he’s overweight and trapped in his seat and then he’s slumped over the controls and driving into a mailbox. He flashes on a night janitor riding the floor buffer with a silly grin on his face then lying against his mirror-opposite in the polished floor as Spike steps over his drained body on his way out of the office building.
Spike pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. His whole body leans against the door to stay steady, though he can feel his insides trembling. Trembling like the hundreds and thousands trembled in his arms before he killed them and they became part of him.
Spike hears the click only a split second before the door opens. It’s telling that he doesn’t feel he has time to react, and he topples sideways through the doorway into the apartment.
“What the Hell, Spike?” Xander exclaims, gripping a side of the doorframe with each hand and leaning out into the hallway to see if anyone else was there. The place is deserted but even in the middle of the night the inoffensive beige carpeting and soft florescent lights make it feel pleasant. The vibe had not worked on Spike, however.
Spike stays there for a few seconds before even attempting to pick himself up from lying, curled, at Xander’s feet. “You’re staying here. You’ve been invited in. What were you doing in the hallway?” Catching a whiff, Xander sniffs at him. “How much does it take to get a vampire drunk?”
Spike wishes it was only alcohol in him, but he can tell there’s more now. Something his body craves and fights all at once. He’s a prisoner to that thing… the one making him do it, even if he can’t remember what he’s doing. But more importantly he’s a prisoner to himself. He can’t break free from his body, his needs, but he can’t live with them either. His soul weighs him down and lifts him up all at once.
Before he can think of something to say, Xander takes his arm and pulls him to the couch. The coat comes off, and with it scents Spike finds familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He flashes on that sterile smell of The Initiative that’s never really left it. Boots are taken off, too, and Spike flashes on Drusilla sliding his shoes off for him then humming and kissing her way up his legs. A mug of blood is pressed into his hand and Spike flashes on Angelus knocking out a police officer then, smiling, shoving the body into Spike to catch and drink.
He looks up towards Xander, looking past Xander though not focusing on anything. “Should go,” he says, his voice steady and decisive. “I’m not safe here.”
“The apartment’s plenty safe,” Xander says as reassuringly as possible. “I’ve got weapons and the door’s locked. Willow did some mojo on this place a couple years ago that’s apparently still up and running.”
But Spike’s shaking his head. Xander doesn’t understand, not that it’s a surprise. Nothing about Spike makes much sense any more. He is a one-hundred and thirtish year-old vampire who hasn’t had a human to drink in a long time, yet the sensation is as fresh and vivid as if he’d had one tonight. And maybe there’s a good reason for that. “I mean… I’m not safe to be around.” He looks up at Xander, making eye contact this time. “I might hurt you.”
Xander’s eyes roll. “We both know you’d suffer a massive brain hemorrhage if you tried. The only things you’re as risk of hurting here is that blood and this couch. And maybe my cable bill. No more ordering pay-per-views and that’s final.” Spike knows Xander’s right, but still shakes his head. Xander sighs and lands on the couch beside Spike. “Hey, if you are dangerous it’s better you’re here, right? Better to hurt me than some random defenseless, unsuspecting someone off the street.”
Spike’s not so sure about that. “Don’t want to hurt you,” he mumbles, unable to stop himself. Restraint has never been high on his list of attributes.
Xander doesn’t hear, though. He’s still going on. “At least I knew what I was getting when I invited you in.”
Spike stares at him curiously, the untouched blood going cold in the mug. Strangely, he isn’t hungry, though he hasn’t eaten since the night before. “Knew what you were getting,” echoes Spike.
Xander nods. “Yup. Getting you. Getting Spike.”
Seconds tick by as Spike regards him, then the vampire with a newly reinstalled soul bursts out laughing. His whole body shakes, the layers of his clothing shifting and the blood sloshing in the mug. He holds a hand to his face to cover it, but he knows he’s been seen and heard already and there’s no stopping it until the fit wants to pass. He closes his eyes tightly as they begin to water from so much laughing. He doesn’t need to gasp for breath or stop to catch it. So he’s got no choice but to keep it up until it wants to stop.
With eyes wide open, Xander watches. The extent of happy-Spike is usually a few light chuckles or a half dozen ones with a bit of sarcasm or an insult. Xander’s never seen Spike like this and it’s more unsettling than curled-up-on-the-floor-Spike.
The laughter finally slows and Spike drags a sleeve over his eyes. “That one’s Dru’s fault,” he manages, a stray laugh popping in as he speaks. There’s a smile in his voice and on his face.
Rattled, Xander speaks cautiously. “You mean it’s her fault you’re here? She turned you, yeah, but…” There isn’t a but, really. Xander just doesn’t follow yet.
Spike shakes his head. “Course she sired me. But what I mean is, Spike’s her fault. The name. Just struck me as funny then, when I heard you saying it.” He glances down at the mug. Not only is he not hungry, but the sight and smell of pig’s blood is making him feel sick again. He sets it down on the coffee table and lounges back against the sofa cushions.
“Used to be just William, then it was William the Bloody. Suited me fine, despite its origins. It’s always about blood, innit?” Blood. He flashes on a man in a tight shirt, head tilted and fresh blood trailing from two punctures. Spike can’t possibly remember every single one of his kills, but he definitely doesn’t recall this one and doesn’t know where it came from. But it seems connected to him somehow.
Spike shakes his head again, this time to try to free it of the image. “It was Dru’s idea to go by train,” Spike explains. “Bit of a change from ocean liner or carriage and I rather fancied the public cars and private compartments. There was always something to snack on and somewhere to get some peace and quiet.” He flashes on the taste of a good port rounding out the flavor of a whole family as its members for three generations lay dead on the floor of the observation car. That was the unlife, eating while traveling and not needing to stop along the way in various villages.
“The engineers and workers weren’t so pleased to find the conductor’s body tossed off the train before the luggage. Naturally a fight ensued and after days of being cooped up in a train, I was more than eager for the engagement. You know how a fight is. You use anything you can get your hands on. And by the light of the moon I’d seen a hammer and spikes lying by a stretch of unfinished track and…” He doesn’t need to say it but he remembers the sound the spikes made as they were driven into human flesh, into skull and bone. He remembers pinning one man down to the tracks by the arms, then stripping him naked and sucking him dry as another engine came towards them full steam ahead. He finished in time. He always finished in time.
“Wasn’t the only time, o’ course,” Spike continues. “Came to be a fondness of mine, that particular type of torture. Suppose it was a bit like staking humans, in a way.” He laughs again then buries his head in his hands and begins to sob. His mind fills again with images, quick flashes. Dozens of people lying tortured and dead in his arms. His mind is cycling through as many as it can manage. Hundreds. Thousands. And all the people who felt those deaths as much as he had. All the people he hurt besides. And, yet, none of them matched that man he still couldn’t place. He knows others, though, and sobs harder, trying to cry it out.
“Should have… learned Chinese…” He feels it soaking into his face through his hands. There’s blood on them, even though they’ve been washed clean. And not just metaphorical blood. It’s real blood. He can smell it. He thinks there’s still some under his fingernails though they’re black and he can’t see. He knows it’s there. Just knows it became a part of him somehow.
Spike lifts his head, cheeks wet, nose sniffling, sobs dying away for the pain they’ve caused his stomach. “How come I can remember everything except for what’s important?” He gives a violent shiver and finds Xander’s arms wrapping around him with the afghan that is kept on the back of the couch. “I hurt,” Spike whispers under his breath.
“I know,” says Xander sympathetically.
Spike shakes his head. “No, I mean, I hurt so many.” He sniffles and rubs a flat palm over his cheeks. He doesn’t understand it… but he knows he’s killed tonight. “I don’t want to hurt anyone else. Don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” Xander tells him, his voice not just reassuring but stern and insistent. “I know you won’t hurt me.”
Slowly Spike cocks his head, staring back at Xander who had put a little too much of an emphasis on the word ‘me’. Spike leans forward just a little. He can smell Xander now. He’s smelled Xander afraid before and there’s no hint of it now. Not like those thousands. And, suddenly, Spike knows the boy’s right. He won’t hurt Xander. Not just because of a chip or a soul… but because of something more in him. In both of them.
Xander leans closer as well, staring back, fixated. Then he turns away and reaches for the mug on the coffee table. “I’ll just go heat this up again,” he says, quickly getting up and heading out of the room. And though Spike doesn’t move, don’t look, he knows that Xander glances over his shoulder at Spike before heading into the kitchen. And it makes him smile. Calms his insides and his mind. He can still smell Xander’s arousal even from the other room, even over freshly-heated blood. And he remembers how it isn’t always about blood.