The Bear and Barnacle

Spike has felt a bit off all day, so sitting at the bar once he’s off work and drinking seems like a good idea. It’s been a weird night, where he finds he’s been telling patrons exactly what he thinks of their orders (“Why would you want to eat something so disgusting? Do you know what we put in that?”) to telling them exactly what he’d like to do with them (“God, your skin looks like dark chocolate and I’d love to taste it.”). He’s pretty sure, based on some of the responses he’s gotten, that there is some sort of truthy-weirdness going on in town.

Since his other option is to lock himself in his house till it passes, which sounds boring in the extreme, he’s decided that drinking is the best way to handle anything potentially embarrassing to tumble out of his mouth. And so, he’s sitting at the bar, deep in his whiskey, as he continues to blather on to whatever poor soul had asked him about being a vampire with a soul. “Angel had it wrong. Having a soul doesn’t bury the monster within. The monster is always there. Always part of you. You can’t ignore it. Maybe Angel’s soul works different, curse and all. And yeah, there’s guilt. I had lots of guilt at the beginning. But only for the innocents. But some people…they deserve to die. Not gonna waste any shame on them. Don’t feel sorry for them, don’t regret ending their lives. But I don’t go around looking to murder anyone. And yeah, I mostly stick to animal blood. Tolerable, at best. But, anyway, I won’t feel guilt, not anymore, for being what I am. And if that means that occasionally, I want to participate in some consensual drinking of human blood, then who the fuck cares? Angel can sod off and fuck himself, wherever he is.”

He'd woken late, and was therefore almost late to work at the Pub. Not that Ivonka would say anything to him. They'd come to some sort of mutual understanding, though they'd never be what you'd call friends. He wasn't sure Ivonka had friends, or that he'd ever want to meet them if she did. In any case, noticing his general moodiness, she'd wordlessly begun greeting him at work with both a shot of vodka (something really good, something they didn't keep at the bar) and a mug of fresh blood.

He was just pulling his phone out to check the time as he stepped into the Pub, when he noticed the blinking light that meant he had a text. It was short and simple, reading only "We're back."

With a suddenly renewed work ethic, he spent the next hour of his shift tidying the pub, making sure everything is as it should be. This includes making sure Dora's table has fresh paper and crayons waiting. He won't let on to anyone but the bit herself how much he's missed her. He's done the best he could in Iago's absence, but he never thought he'd be working this much. Not usually one to be employee of the month material. It'll be good to have someone who is at least a little more of a people person back behind the bar. He really belongs sitting AT it, drinking from the bottle, not serving from it.

A short time later, he takes even greater pleasure telling the frat boys at table three that they can "damn well order off the existing menu or get the bloody hell out". He's not sure, but he thinks he catches Ivonka's lip quirk up when she hears it.

Spike crushes the remainder of his cigarette under his heel, still looking at the multitude of dogs tied up outside the pub. Well, that's just odd. Of course, round here, odd is the usual. He makes his way into the pub for another evening of crazy nuns and obnoxious frat boys.

Leaning against the bar with his full amount of charm, he greets Ivonka, who merely rolls her eyes at him. He pauses and sniffs the air. "Oh, blimey, do I smell onion? Did someone order onion rings? Come on, love, let us have a taste before carrying it out, yeah?" Ivonka shakes her head, but slides a small plate with a few onion rings on it across the bar to him. "Knew you loved me." he smirks.

His fingers reach out to pick the top onion ring off the pile, but as soon as he touches them, they vanish. And in their place...

"Merowr?" A tiny, insanely cute fluffball of gray kitten. Spike pulls his hand back quickly. "What the hell, Ivonka? This some kind of joke?"

"Not mine, why would I turn food into a kitten? How would I?" she demands, glaring at him.

He looks around the bar. "Well, someone must've done..." He sighs. "Fine, no onion rings."

"Here, get to work...take that to the table in the corner." She shoves a tray at him. As he picks it up, his thumb brushes the pile of vegetables on the closest plate, and, just like before, the food vanishes and is replaced by, this time, a small orange kitten. Spike barely manages to not drop the tray, but quickly puts the plate of...kitten...back on the bar.

"What in the bloody hell is going on here?"

When Spike arrived at work that night, and saw the picture on the board, he rolled his eyes and smirked. Just great. He’ll have to make sure doors are more well locked in the future. Luckily, the picture only featured him, and from the waist up. No need to show off to the whole pub who else was there. How (and who with) he gets his rocks off is no ones concern. He wonders if Dora is at all traumatized from the things she’s possibly seen, based on some of the other pictures.

But then he had a thought about that. If she got pictures like this of people she didn’t live with…

So he hunted her down at her table, and made a deal. A deal with a six year old. A deal which will give him access to certain photos, if he fulfills her request. And really, it’s not so much to ask. Might work out rather well, actually. He wonders about exactly how her mind works sometimes…

Which is how he now finds himself entering Ici, Amour this evening, looking for something very specific...

Spike pulled the last of his clothes out of the small closet and stuffed them in his duffel bag. Now that he has the necessities taken care of...refrigerator, microwave, bed, TV (yeah, that is a necessity), he's ready to officially move into his new place.

It couldn't have been planned better. Basement flat, dark, private. He's got the back bedroom blacked out already, but figures heavy curtains will do in the front room. Just in case, sometimes, someone visiting wants the sunlight.

He figures Holmes probably suspects something is up, he's been there less and less, but he still isn't sure what to say. Thank you and goodbye are both things he's not big on.

The fight raged on around him, no one noticing but him at first, as the amulet around his neck suddenly glowed. Before he could react, sunlight was shooting out of it...and radiating around, and through him. Bright. Blinding. Glorious. He could feel his soul stronger than ever. It burned. No, it really sodding burned. She was beside him now. The burning was growing. He looked down at his hand, and watched the flames ignite over his fingers, even as her fingers were wound between them. It was like the fire inside was bursting forth from his very center, racing out in tendrils of scorching heat to burst out of the skin that held it in. It burned, burned so strong and so bright and hurt like, well, hell, literally. But he smiled, and smirked, and looked in her eyes calmly as she said she loved him. Stayed calm, stayed himself, even as he turned to ash from the inside out.

If he had known that tips would be this good with just a little bit of flirting thrown into his work, he might have gotten a job ages ago. Now with pay and tips, he's able to start on the list...

First up is his own phone. Can't rely on Holmes' much longer. Not if item two on the list happens. Can't make the call about the advert without a phone, anyway.

So he gets one with the works, internet and texting and all. Music and videos right on his phone. Technology is grand! He programs in the few numbers he needs, the pub, Holmes' main line, and then he pulls out the crumpled napkin that holds the number of the first person he's going to call. After all, he made a promise. He types in the number, presses send, and waits as he hears the ring on the other end.

"Hello? Looking for Dora, actually."

Spike blew out a puff of smoke, casually flicking the butt of his cigarette down on the ground in front of him. His boot crushed it as he took another step forward. Morning fog was rolling into Margate in waves, and he knew it was time to head home, before the sun rose. As his pace quickened slightly, he swore he heard a chuckle. Glancing around, he saw nothing, shrugged, and continued on. The pre-dawn light was beginning to creep over the buildings, trying to poke through the dense fog. As Spike lit up another cigarette, he had the distinct feeling of being watched. He slowed his steps slightly, listening for footsteps. Despite his keen hearing, there was no sound to be heard. And then, a voice, with just a hint of Irish brouge, made him stop cold.

"Pushin' the limits a bit, aren't we, William? Almost sunrise and all. But then, you always did like to push the limits, didn't ya?"

Spike turned slowly, cigarette still in one hand, and stared at the man behind him. "Angel? What the bloody hell are you doing here?" But no, something was wrong with the smirk, and the eyes, the way they were boring into him. Oh God. "Angelus?" How'd he lose his soul this time?

"And who else would I be, I might ask? Course I'm Angelus." He jumped merrily forward towards Spike, smirking. "Just comin' back from a night of mayhem, are you?" Angelus started to reach out towards Spike, and Spike raised his hand to block the touch...except his hand went right through Angelus' arm. If Spike needed to breathe, he would have gasped. He jumped back. "You're not soddin' Angel OR Angelus. You're the bloody FIRST!" He shook his head, backing away further. "Can't make me do anything, broke that power. You can't be here."

Angelus laughed. "What are you talking about, William m'lad? I'm the first WHAT?" He was dangerously close, leaning toward Spike's ear, voice lowered. "I mean, other than THAT first, but you weren't talking about that, were you?"

Spike yanked back again, and turned away. "This isn't happening." He glanced at the brightning sky, and started walking again. "Gotta get in." He quickened his pace to almost a jog, but Angelus' kept up, laughing all the way.

Oddly enough, when Spike had paused the dvd he was watching and gone out the front door for a fag in the evening, he had found a package with his name on it.

"Well, now, who'd send me a pressie, I wonder?" he smirked, cigarette dangling from his lips as he opened the package. Inside was a t-shirt. Spike unfolded it, curious, and then his grin widened.

"Damn STRAIGHT."

Finishing and crushing his cigarette, he flung the shirt over his arm and returned inside to resume his movie. Placing the t-shirt beside him, he sat and pushed play, talking to the screen. "You, Edward Cullen, sully the name of vampire. You pansy."

Whether he lives for one more year or a millenia, Spike will never forget his mother. Sometimes, the notes come unbidden, playing through his head, and he'll catch himself humming or singing softly under his breath.

( The trigger may be broken, but the song will always remind him... )

Spike stretched languidly across the bed. Or at least, tried to. As he started to stretch, everything hurt. Joints ached. He struggled to think if he'd been active last night...fought, or anything. His brain had an odd foggy feeling, and his hearing seemed off. He warily opened his eyes, and it took longer for the room to come into focus than it ought.

He slowly pushed himself up off the bed, groaning as he did so. Why the bloody hell did he ache so much? As he stood, he found that he couldn't even quite straighten his back all the way up.

"What in the hell?" he mumbled...with a deeper, more gravelly voice than he remembered. He brought a hand up to run through his hair, and that's when he saw, and he froze, eyes widening. That was NOT his hand. It couldn't be. The wrinkles, the age spots...he hadn't aged in over 100 years...but it wasn't just his hand. Both hands. Arms. Chest. All looked wrinkled...old. His hand finally reached his hair, to find it sparse and thin. Reaching for clothing with unsteady fingers, he was beginning to panic. Old. He was old. He couldn't BE old. Still undead. No heartbeat. No reflection. Still wanted blood. But old, so old. So slow, so achey, so tired.

He, much more slowly than normal, made his way up the stairs and out the front door into the evening. Couldn't just sit there...had to get out. Had to figure out why, what, how. Had to keep moving. Old. Couldn't be old. His confusion was threatening to take over his brain. Can't get old. Frail. Broken. Can't.

He wandered the streets desolately.

The annoying thing, Spike thinks, about being a vampire is the number of wasted hours hiding from the son. Cause sleep isn't always needed, or at least not for very long. It drives him crazy, being trapped indoors or in sewers when he could be doing something useful, or productive.
He glances at the clock - 10am. He wants out - not sleepy at all, might as well find something to do. There's a sewer entrance just down the road...if he uses a blanket and runs, he shouldn't be more than lightly singed. He walks upstairs, into the living room, and is surprised to find it very dark. Curtains are open, but no mid-morning sun is streaming through. Curious, he inches cautiously closer to the window closet to the door. Outside, it's dark. Not night, no moon. But no sun either. Just dark. He glances back at the clock in the room. 10:05 am.

"Well that's just bloody weird." he muses, slowly opening the door and looking outside. Still dark, and he's not bursting into flame. He drops the blanket he was holding and steps outside. Casually smoking a cigarette, he spends a good half hour wandering the streets, watching people pointing at the sky and expressing concern. Him? He's rather enjoying his morning stroll. Not something he gets to do often. Not to say the lack of sun doesn't concern him, just that he's used to mystical weirdness, seen a fair share of it, so it's not an earth-shattering horror. For him, it has it's obvious benefits.

"Right," he says to no one but himself. "Got the day, or whatever this is, can do whatever I want." Something useful. Or productive. It takes him less than a minute to decide on a course of action. "To the pub, then...fancy a bit of breakfast.."

The first time it had happened, Buffy had been too wrapped up in the moment to really notice. The second time, she thought maybe he'd anticipated it. By the third time, she was paying a bit more attention. By the fourth time, she finally asked.

"Spike, do you EVER wear underwear?"

Smirking at her from his position under her, chained to the bed, he laughed. "Not if I can help it, luv. Done my best to avoid it for years now."

She rolled her eyes. "Do I even want to know why?" As Spike opened his mouth to answer she cut him off. "Never mind, I don't. I really don't."

Truth was, Spike had learned long ago that underwear was really a waste of his time. He was much more comfortable in his snug pants without it, and the easy access was certainly a plus. Really, why on Earth would he need it?

It is no secret that Spike is love’s bitch. He’s made a point of admitting it, on several occasions. He fawned over Cecily (though, that didn’t go so well, did it? Especially once he ran into Cecily, aka Halfrek, after the fact), he doted on Drusilla and lost her anyway. And Buffy. He fought for his very soul for her, only to end up hearing empty words and having an empty bed. All of this was common knowledge to those that knew him.
( So then what Secret could he have? )

Spike saw the Karaoke announcement on the Bulletin at the pub, and smirked. Why not?

The night in question, when Iago asked for volunteers, Spike gave him a little nod and then swept up to the front, exhaling the last of the smoke from his cigarette. Grabbing the mike, he looked out over the pub patrons. "Um, yeah. This little ditty is one that I...well, yeah, it's just...oh, bugger, just start the music."



The intro is really long before it gets to the lyrics, but it's just so good! Thanks to youtuber kerin812 for this awesome vid!

Stumbling up from the pub cellar, still not fully awake for the evening, Spike stuck the note he'd scribbled up on the pub bulletin board. Couldn't intrude too long on his current hosts, not really much room to move about...that, and the proximity to all that liquor probably wasn't in his best interests.



In case that's not readable, it says - "Residence needed, SWM, blonde, seeks very dark flat. Cellar/basement or crypt also an option. Smoking must be allowed. Keeps late hours, sleeps during day. Please ask for Spike here in the pub."

Hordes of monsters and demons and other scary-looking things were rushing towards them, weapons drawn. What looked like...could it be a dragon??...was swooping down at them. They all knew that this was most likely the end. They had fought the good fight, proven their point, but there was no way that Spike could see any of them getting out of this. Well, maybe Illyria. Out of sheer defiance of death.

As blows began flying, Spike found himself wondering what it would be like now, to finally die. The final sort. How many times could a bloke come back, after all? Well, Angel had done it a few. And Buffy. But really, maybe it would be nice to rest now. Except that, either because of his re-earned soul or in spite of it, he was most likely going to be headed for some version of hell.

He was fighting valiantly, but it was not going well. Everything hurt, and he could feel the blood dripping down his face. There were too many of them. He couldn't even see Angel, Gunn, or Ilyria at all in the sea of fighting. And that was when, in his moment of glancing away and losing a bit of concentration, that the butt of a crossbow hit him square across the head. And then, the sea of monsters and blood spun and abrutly went...black.

( The dark was peaceful... )