It's all AU.

Spike was sprawled in a chair in a secluded corner of the library. He was so relaxed and engrossed that when someone approached, he wasn't anywhere near quick enough to hide the volume of Victorian poetry he'd been reading.

He looked up at them with a sheepish grin.

Sally left the library with her arms full of books. She didn't really register how dark it was now, still somewhat dazed over the whole Shakespeare business. She wandered in the general direction of the hotel, not hurrying. She could see lights up ahead, and this finally made her realise that she was wandering alone in the dark with her arms full of books. Alone in the dark wasn't a new thing, but the armfull of books wasn't very practical. If anyone did threaten her, she supposed she could throw the complete works of Oscar Wilde at them. Not that anyone necessarily would, she supposed.

She heard footsteps behind her and to her left, and turned, flashing a wide smile, but carefully separating the topmost and heaviest book just in case.

Spike was up on the roof again. Not the hotel roof, because there was pretty much always one Jack or another in residence up there. And not the warehouse roof, because that held bad memories. He'd found another decently high roof, across the other side of the town, of some sort of office building, and he was gazing out over the town, breathing in the cool night air and occasionally swigging from the bottle of vodka dangling from his hand.

( Spoilers up to 2x03 )

( Cut for length and relevance. )

He ended up sitting on a nearby lobby couch, leaning over with his head in his hands as he tried to get his head into a place where he could even deal. Was he back because he'd dared wish he could come back? He'd nearly convinced himself it was all some elaborate dream, reaching for anything that could explain it.

At least he was dressed this time, if you also counted the armored suit under his street clothes.
He heard someone approach and stand in front of him, felt the pull of their presence, but didn't look up yet. He didn't want to know right now-he was still getting his mind around being back here.

It was night. Spike had found his way up onto the flat roof of a warehouse near the edge of the town. (He'd have preferred the roof of the hotel, as it was the tallest building, but there'd been someone else already up there.)

He was standing near the edge, vodka bottle on the low wall that bordered the roof, gazing out over the town. He was deep in his thoughts, wondering what the fuck this place was, and what the fuck was going on with his head.

Spike wandered out of the sewer and into the hotel basement. He'd finally found the sewer access on his second day, which had relieved him no end as it meant he could get about in daylight rather than being trapped in just one building.

He headed for the stairs, and then paused, listening. As a vampire, he had extra good hearing, but he wouldn't have needed it to hear whoever was coming down an intersecting corridor towards the one he was in. They weren't making any attempt to be quiet.

Spike struck up an indolent pose, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded, and waited. It'd been a couple of days since he'd drained Jack, and he was getting a little peckish.

Spike wandered down a tree-lined path in the park. It was night (obviously – he wasn't looking to commit suicide) and he'd rested and drunk some more blood, and the bullet wound in his side was healing nicely. He'd gone out looking for cigarettes but hadn't managed to find any, which seemed to be about par for the course in this place. Couldn't hurt anyone, couldn't feed, couldn't even bloody smoke.

At least the bar served blood. Thank heaven for small mercies.

And alcohol. He'd got himself another bottle of vodka and was swigging it as he sauntered along, vaguely looking for some pretty young thing who might be seduced into letting him drink their blood instead. In Sunnydale, there'd always been one or two possible victims about.

Spike was feeling distinctly better. He’d found a first aid kit in the hotel kitchen and patched himself up, and the (internal) application of some alcohol from a bottle of vodka he’d found nearby had made the bullet wound in his side more or less ignorable. Now he just needed a drink.

Preferably O-Positive.

Spike eyed the sign pointing to the bar and sniffed thoughtfully. In a world where trapdoors disappeared into thin air and demon hunters from 2007 turned up at inconvenient moments, and where the kitchens were staffed by androids, it was quite conceivable that the bar would serve blood.

He swaggered into the bar, noted that it was almost empty – not unexpected for the middle of the afternoon – and leant on the bar, automatically giving the serving android the eye. “Don’t suppose you serve blood, mate?” he asked, in a low voice. No point in shouting out that he was a vampire, not when he wasn’t sure he could fight off anyone who took exception to the fact.

It appeared they did serve blood, and not just blood but human blood at that. Spike grinned. Maybe this place wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Spike flung open the trapdoor and clambered through, rolling away instinctively as he let it slam behind him and only just managed to stop himself rolling out of the shadow and into the sunshine.

"Bugger." He wasn't going to get very far in broad daylight. He scrabbled backwards till he had his back against a wall and looked around wildly, breathing heavily.

An alley. A pretty clean one, for a change, and not one he was familiar with. And he was familiar with most of the alleys in Sunnydale. It wasn't, after all, a large place and they were good places to hang around.

Oh, and the trapdoor had disappeared.

Standing up and feeling in the pockets of his duster, he discovered he'd also lost his fags.

"Bollocks," he said forcefully.