Spike sat very still as he watched Buffy walk away. Even if the afternoon sun had not prevented him from following her, there was no guarantee that his legs would have obeyed even the simplest of commands.
Heaven. She’d been in heaven.
The revelation was too much to wrap his brain around, and so he sat, staring stupidly as the slayer’s petite frame disappeared around the street corner. He sat as the shadows around him lengthened and continued to sit as the alley fell into semi-darkness. At length, his unnatural stillness broke and his head sank slowly into his hands.
Of course she was in heaven, you stupid git. Where else would she go after sacrificin’ herself to save the world?
Suddenly, the slayer’s behavior since her return made perfect sense: her lost expression as she stood on the steps of her house that first night, her unwillingness to make eye contact with her friends, her flinches whenever any of the Scoobies tried to touch her. These were not the actions of a grateful escapee from hell. This was the behavior of someone who had touched perfect happiness and had it stripped away. These were the crippled reactions of someone whose soul had been violated in the worst possible manner.
God Red, what did you do to her?
On shaky legs, Spike rose and made for the back entrance of the Magic Box. He wandered through the training area and slipped into the main store, still lost in thought. Functioning on autopilot, his feet carried him to the front counter where Anya was dusting the shelves behind the register.
The ex-demon turned, caught sight of Spike standing not three feet away from her, and squealed in surprise. Her piercing shriek startled Spike out of his dark thoughts, and the two stood for a moment staring at one another.
“Spike! I wish you wouldn’t do that. I make embarrassingly loud noises when I get startled. And look! I might have broken these jars and then you would have had to pay for them!” Anya scrunched up her face in an attempt to appear stern and angry, but succeeded only in looking like a small child who had smelled something unpleasant.
Spike stood for a moment longer, desperately trying to think of what had brought him to the Magic Box in the first place. Suddenly remembering, he reached into his pockets and started piling charms on the counter.
Act normal! The Slayer doesn't want the others to know!
“Won these off a warlock, luv. Thought you might like a look. I sure as hell don’t want ‘em, but I figured you might be able to sell a few.” Spike started spreading the trinkets out, untangling chains and arranging them so that the former vengeance demon could get a better look.
Over the summer, Anya and Spike had entered into a kind of unofficial business arrangement. Spike brought Anya any strange objects he picked up while on patrol or in the demon bars and Anya would sell them in the Magic Box in return for a cut of the price. The deal suited them both very well because any returns Anya received were pure profit and Spike ended up getting much more money with less effort than he would have hawking them on the black market.
Anya poked around some of the pieces, holding one pendant up to the light before replacing it in the pile and turning her attention to the next piece. After a few minutes of examination, she collected most of the baubles and put them in a plastic shoebox she kept under the counter. Four she shoved back towards Spike.
Seeing the vampire’s questioning glance, she launched into a long-winded explanation. “I’ll take all of the rest. Those four you can get rid of. See that one, with the funny squiggle and the purple gem? That’s a Frixian courtship broach. It’ll dissolve into dust if a kid touches it and you would not believe the number of parents who allow their children to paw all over the merchandise. Shameful. I’ll never manage to sell it before one of them gets their grubby little hands on it.
“Now those two black ones there look like Atlan curse beads. You don’t need to worry, being a vampire and all, but those make human men impotent after prolonged exposure. I’m not risking those around Xander, even if they would fetch a good price. Those used to be quite popular in my vengeance work, let me tell you!
“And that one. Honestly I don’t know what that one was. Doesn’t matter now since it’s broken. You might as well throw it in the trash on your way out.
“I’ll stick with the usual deal. They’ll be priced and out on the floor by tomorrow. I still want fifteen percent of whatever they sell for. That’s pre-discount just so you know. I’m thinking about having a sale for our repeat customers. No arguments over the prices this time either. I know what I’m talking about.” Anya continued to prattle on about supply and demand, laissez faire economies, and perceived desirability, but Spike finally managed to tune out the sound of her voice.
He slipped the broach and beads back into his pants pocket. Any normal evening would have ended with the beads becoming the focal point of some particularly nasty pranks, but Spike was too distracted to care much about getting involved in malicious mischief. He picked up the last charm and looked more closely at it. Sure enough, the large pendant appeared to be broken. All that remained of what had once been a hollow, green orb the size of a small orange was a shattered fragment held to the chain by a delicate gold ring. He tossed it in the trash can behind the counter.
Must’ve fallen on it during the fight.
He patted down his jacket and found a few more green shards in one pocket. They joined the piece still attached to the chain in the wastebasket.
The tingle down the back of his neck that warned of the sun’s unwelcome presence had disappeared sometime during Anya’s appraisal of his winnings. No longer paying the chattering ex-demon any mind what so ever, Spike made what he hoped was an encouraging sound in her general direction before wandering out the front door of the shop.
Spike walked the streets of Sunnydale, going through the motions of his usual routine. First he went to the butcher’s for blood. The friendly smile and quizzical expression on the shopkeeper’s face went unanswered. Then he made his way to his favorite package store for two bottles of Jack Daniels. Instead of responding to the cute cashier’s flirting with his usual leer, he simply laid down his money and walked away in silence. Turning his steps towards home, he made a final stop at a seedy gas station for a few cartons of cigarettes. Even the teenaged attendant, who had been completely engrossed in his Batman comic just moments before, asked if he was okay and was ignored in turn.
Spike was a creature of action. He was impulsive and rash and he always had an answer for any problem, even if it wasn't always the right one. For once in his unlife, Spike was at a complete loss as to what to do. Should he attempt to comfort the slayer or give her space? What would he say to Red and the others if the subject of Buffy’s resurrection came up? Would he be able to hold his tongue the next time he caught them congratulating one another on a job well done? And Dawn, could he keep this big of a secret from her as well?
These and many other questions swirled through Spike’s mind when he finally returned home. The jars of pigs’ blood made their way into the mini fridge. The cigarettes and one of the whiskey bottles went into the small adjoining cabinet. He dropped the last bottle next to his easy chair before facing the television, intending to turn it on.
It was then that the faint smell of blood permeated Spike’s senses. He snapped his eyes towards the far alcove and tensed at what he saw.
There, lying across Dave’s stand, were three dead mice, arranged neatly like an offering.
Drusilla!
But no, even though he and his dark princess had made a practice of giving one another rodents for snacks, he could catch no trace of her distinctive signature. Come to think of it, Spike could not sense the recent presence of anyone but himself, the Nibblet, and Clem. Smokes, booze, and dust, yes. Even the earthy aromas he associated with small birds and bats, but no characteristically human or demonic scents. The realization did little to reassure him.
He strode over to the little statue and grabbed one of the mice. Four bleeding gashes marred its throat, two on either side of the neck, and it appeared to have been partially drained. The legs and ribs were broken, as if someone had grabbed the little animal and squeezed. A quick inspection revealed similar injuries to the other two as well.
Okay, this is just… weird.
Spike scooped up the remains and walked to the doorway. After tossing them outside, far from the entrance, he slammed the door and turned around. He no longer trusted his nose, so his eyes raked over every corner of the crypt’s main floor, searching for anything that seemed out of place.
Nothing.
He turned his attention downstairs. The only unusual things he could find were small shards of the broken pendant on his dresser. Those he tossed into a bronze funerary urn that he used to collect ashes and cigarette butts. Finally satisfied that no intruders were waiting to leap from the shadows, Spike returned to his recliner to think.
His nose told him that no other demon or human had entered his crypt in some time. His eyes attested to the fact that the dead mice were the only objects out of place inside the crypt. He could feel no tingle of magic, no hint of its presence.
Angelus loved to leave dead animals lying about his victim’s homes, but as far as I know, Peaches is still all soul-having. No dice there. Not the Scoobies’ style. Too creative for Harm. Looks like Dru’s work, but how could she mask her presence from me? Who the hell else could it be?
Spike sat in the easy chair, the bridge of his nose pinched between thumb and index finger, thinking. He could come up with no ideas as to who would, and could, have left the mice in his crypt. Most of the enemies he had made were more the type to kill first, build cryptic shrines later. The lack of scent or magic removed a great many other people from the running, foes and otherwise. At length, Spike finally gave up. The prankster would reveal him or herself, or not. Then Spike would pound in the trespasser's face, or not. He would just wait and see.
Spike retrieved the bottle of whiskey from the floor and leaned back in his recliner. Thoughts of the dead mice tucked firmly away, there was little else to do but return to the subject of the slayer. If any topic was worth getting drunk over, that one certainly fit the bill. Spike sat in silence for a long while, only stirring when he had finished the first bottle and wanted to trade it out for a full one. On his way to the cabinet, Spike started muttering to himself.
"I bet she had wings. Wha' d'ya think Dave? I bet she had wings and a halo and a little gold harp like in a stained glass window. Wouldn't that just beat all?" The second bottle forgotten, Spike moved to confront the little stone saint. "Not that you care, I bet you find the whole situation most amusin' don't you?" Spike waved the empty bottle menacingly at Dave. "Cellar-dweller worryin’ himself sick over the high, mighty vampire slayer. Well fuck you." He paused and squinted his eyes at the tiny bloodstains that still marred the statue's base, "And fuck your wee, little mice buddies too." With a dismissive wave, Spike lurched over to his cabinet and grabbed the other bottle of Jack before stumbling down the ladder to his sleeping area.
Pacing the length and breadth of the subterranean chambers, Spike started taking out his frustrations and fears on whatever lay at hand. He kicked furniture and punched the wall until his hand bled, drinking all the while. When he paused for a moment to identify his next target, a strange sensation flooded him. A sense of calm, of acceptance and love suffused his mind. The emotions were so unexpected and foreign to the enraged vampire that he clutched his head wildly, confusion writ large across his features.
Arriving at the only conclusion his liquor soaked mind could settle upon, Spike hurled the rest of the whiskey into one shadowy corner of the room. "Bloody booze!" Even the angry satisfaction of hearing the loud crash and subsequent wet splash of violated alcohol soon faded in the midst of the stream of positive emotions. He shook his head violently, trying to rid himself of the unwelcome feelings, but succeeded only in making himself dizzy. Staggering from the alcohol as much as from his emotional disarray, Spike fell face down on his bed. Wrapped in feelings of comfort and security, the vampire soon fell into a deep sleep.