"A psychotic vampire slayer," Spike muttered to himself, again. Fray... what the hell kind of name was that, anyway? Pft. Bird was off her nut. Entirely. Getting out of that fix, with her and with Jeannie (although the washer and dryer were classic, and the vampire could give credit where it was due), made him want nothing so much as a long hard pull on a very unfiltered cigarette.
Maybe he could find Anita, too. He smiled to himself, wondering if he could, wondering if the words long and hard could be applied to a different situation. Or thing.
Spike may have a soul, but he was still Spike.
Walking now, he pulled a cigarette and a zippo lighter out of his duster, setting the cigarette between his lips and letting it dangle there as he flicked the flame into life, pulled, and closed the lighter with a metallic clang. The vampire inhaled, deeply. As deep as he could. God bless these things, he thought.
And then he saw the hat with the feather on it. And he tilted his head. Watching the progress of the man wearing it as he walked toward him.