Spike was a little drunk. He had been moping over his situation, what with him being stuck in L.A with a bunch of wankers like Angel while Buffy was probably off making nice with some Italian manwhore, and had been at the bar for quite a while since his exchange of words with the Star Wars junkie. Honestly, how sad could his life possibly be right now? He was talking to another Andrew through the internet, taunting little twelve year old drug addicts, and making nice with random people for cash so that he could drink himself silly by the end of the night. Whatever happened to the heroic missions? The group of people who thought he was brilliant and fantastic for fighting at the Slayer's side when he could have been trying to kill her? That was gone. And now all he had to do around here was stay out of Angel's shadow and make nice with the locals. How pathetic.
Feeling sorry for himself was something that Spike did well. He was also pretty good at making people feel terrible about themselves, which he preferred over what he was doing now, so it was a pretty good thing that this Jaina person had decided to come and find him. Maybe now Spike wouldn't have to stagger back to his cheap hotel room in a drunken stupor. Leaning against the bar, he eyed the woman who had approached him and smirked. "Sorry, love. Comic convention is that way." He pointed in the opposite direction and turned back to face his drink.