It's all AU.

Jack was filthy - dirt smuged on his face and hands, outter shirt unfastened and his white undershirt was grimey. He walked into the hotel, flopped down in a chair with a low groan of relief. "I am too old for this shit," he announced, and worked a hand between himself and the chair to press against his back. He arched against that hand, his back cracked and he groaned again.

Spike lay on his back on a blanket in a field not far from the town, head pillowed on his arms, gazing up at the stars. Beside him was a coolbox of beer (and juice, because it didn't hurt to be prepared) and a basket with picnic food. And a small bag with a few other supplies.

He'd left a note for Lane to tell him where to find him, but he was prepared to wait. He was perfectly content to gaze up at the sky, taking the occasional sip of beer and listening to the sounds of the night. This was his time and he felt at home.