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Spike is walking back from the butcher's a little past sunset, his groceries tucked under one arm, when his ears perk to the sound of a small animal trotting through the tall cemetery grass to his left.
It smells like a cat, which is confirmed when one walks up to him on the path.
"Meow," says the cat.
It's an orange tabby—one of those big, dumb ones that don't have much going on between the eyes, with a nic in one ear and a crooked tail. It blinks up at Spike with a droopy-eyed expression.
"Piss off," says Spike, and keeps walking.
The cat follows him.
"Meow," it says. "Meow."
"Yeah, yeah," Spike mutters, because it's not like anyone can see him. "Everybody wants something. Go on then, get."
The cat meows at him more insistently and rubs its head on the side of Spike's leg, which startles him to the point that he almost kicks it—he doesn't, though. Just because he's not sure if this bloody chip would activate or not, and he's not about to end up with a spilled deli cup of pig's blood all over the sidewalk, second time this week.
Otherwise he'd kick the cat. No question.
The cat says, "Mrow?" and winds between Spike's ankles.
"Bloody hell, are you simple?" Spike jumps to the side and moves on. "'Oh, goodie, a vampire! Maybe he'll pet me and give me treaties and not eat me up when he's feeling a bit peckish before dinner.'"
Animals, dogs in particular, usually have the good sense to stay away from creatures of the night. Better instincts than people. Ginger here must really be as dumb as it looks, following Spike around.
Or it can tell about the bloody chip. That'd add insult to injury, wouldn't it?
There's a couple late-evening mourners out and about still, clustered around one of the newer graves. Spike nudges the cat with his boot and says, "Go on, then, over there. Go bother those people—make 'em think you're a sign from their dearly departed or something."
"Meow," the cat says, and swats at Spike's shoelaces.
"Oi, watch those!" Spike scolds. His paper grocery bag crunches in his arm when he sidesteps the damn creature again. "They're new. What are you, a shapeshifter or something? If you're a Scooby, don't think I'm helping you get out of this mess."
The cat flicks its tail and says nothing.
Spike stares at it for a moment.
"I'm off my bird," he decides. "Too long with this bloody chip in my head."
He'll just ignore the cat, which should be easy—he's almost at his crypt, anyway, and he'll just lock the damn thing out. Get himself nice and settled for a nice evening of… watching the telly and not talking to anyone.
Exactly the way he likes it.
The cat follows him all the way to the door and does the ridiculous ankle-winding thing again, and Spike, exasperated, crouches down and puts his groceries on the ground.
"What is it you want, hm?" he asks, raising his eyebrows when the cat headbutts his knee. "If I pet you will you sod off? You're just in it for the kicks, hm? I'm just a body to you."
"Mrow!" chirps the cat.
Spike rolls his eyes. He doesn't want the dumb thing caterwauling outside his door all night when he's trying to watch his shows; might as well give it what it wants.
He reaches out and pats the cat on the head.
The cat lifts slightly onto its back legs and rubs against the side of Spike's hand.
Spike takes the hint and scratches the cat's cheek and behind its ears, smirking despite himself when the cat leans into his touch.
He hasn't pet a cat since he was a human—and he was allergic back then, though it hardly stopped him. They always gravitated to him at parties.
Probably because he was always hiding in the kitchen with the mousers at parties. Christ, he was pathetic.
The cat begins to purr.
"I bet you say that to all the blokes," Spike tells it.
The cat paces in a tight circle a few times, encouraging Spike's touch, before it flops down onto its side with a soft mrrt.
Spike has a normal reaction to that. He doesn't have any reaction, actually, because he's a soulless vampire who's gonna murder the Slayer and all her stupid friends as soon as this chip's out of his brain, and he'll murder the cat too if that's what it takes.
But, you know, since he's here, might as well pet the fluffy belly.
The cat wraps its front paws around Spike's arm and starts gnawing on the side of his palm.
"Ow!" Spike growls, slipping into vamp face. "Bloody hell!"
The cat yowls in fear, twisting out of Spike's reach and bolting in the opposite direction. It disappears in a flash of orange between the bars of the wrought iron fence that separates the cemetery from the neighborhood nearby.
Well… great. That's exactly what Spike wanted—to be left alone. He should've done the vamp face idea from the start and saved himself the trouble.
Scowling, he scoops up his groceries and pushes the door open to his crypt. He'll just get these put away, turn on the telly, and then never think about that bloody cat again.
~*~
"Meow," says the bloody cat. "Meow. Meow."
Spike, mid-swipe of hand across his bleeding nose, does a double take. It's early morning, a few hours 'til sunrise, and he's on his way home after a little recreational demon brawling.
The cat is perched on a headstone near his crypt, predator eyes gleaming in the dark.
Spike glances around and, finding no one to overhear, says, "Shouldn't good little kitties be asleep in their beds right about now?"
"Meow," the cat answers.
Spike laughs drily. "Right. Well, let's get this bit over with, then. C'mon."
The cat stays where it is.
Spike frowns. He takes a step forward—the cat hops off the gravestone and walks a row away.
"This isn't about the other night, is it?" Spike asks, feeling himself getting huffy. "'Cause you bit first, and a man don't just take that lying down."
The cat flicks its tail.
"Besides," Spike continues, pressing a finger to his temple. "Not like I could actually do it. And I bet you'd taste bad."
"Meow!" the cat protests.
"You would."
The cat walks along the row of graves and hops up onto another stone, this one taller than the last. "Meow, meow."
Look, the thing is—Spike hasn't had a lot of wins lately. Taken a few hits to his pride. Hasn't been his year.
"Here, kitty-kitty," he croons. Then, hating himself deeply, crouches down and wriggles his fingers. "Pspspspsps."
The cat's ears perk up.
"Yeah, that's it." Spike smirks. "Come to Daddy."
Cautiously, the cat jumps to the ground and slinks its way over to him. When it gets closer, Spike can see that it has a new scratch on its face; must've had some sort of confrontation in the last twenty-four hours.
"See, we're kindred spirits, you and me," Spike says, and makes the kissy noise again. "I won my scrape. Looks like you did too."
The cat ventures just into petting range, then butts its head against Spike's outstretched hand.
Victory, see? Spike can make the stupid cat like him if he wants. The Slayer doesn't have a cat. None of her dumb friends have cats.
Spike's cat rolls over to expose its belly.
"Oh, no," Spike says, quickly pulling his hand away. He clicks his tongue. "I'm not falling for that twice."
"Mrrp?" says the cat, paws kneading slowly in the air.
"Not gonna happen." Spike stands up, straightening the lines of his coat, and crosses his arms. "Find someone else to sucker into your death trap."
The cat rolls onto its feet. "Meow."
"Exactly," says Spike.
The cat stares vacantly at him.
Spike, becoming acutely embarrassed by the second, says, "Well, be seeing you," and walks swiftly away.
The cat trots after him with a chirp.
"Get," Spike tells it.
The cat swishes its tail while it walks.
"You're embarrassing yourself," Spike says. "Don't be so clingy."
"Meow."
Spike makes a shooing motion. "You can't come home with me."
"Meow."
"You wouldn't even like it there."
"Meow."
"Don't take that tone with me."
They come to a halt at the entrance to Spike's crypt.
Spike stares at the cat.
The cat stares back.
Spike opens the door and the cat bolts inside at full speed and slams into the mini fridge.
"Maow," says the cat.
A smile tugs at Spike's lips. He tosses his jacket onto the fridge and shuts the door behind him with his foot. "Serves you right, you know. Following strange men home."
The cat sniffs Spike's coat, then pads towards the middle of the room. It eyes the recliner he's got set up in front of the telly, wiggles its bum in preparation, and then leaps onto the back of the chair.
The whole thing rocks dangerously—Spike found it abandoned on the side of the road—but the cat's unperturbed; it kneads the backrest a few times before curling up in a ball.
Dawn's coming soon—Spike can feel it. He's also just bloody tired, and now that the adrenaline's worn off, he can admit there might be something off about his shoulder. He eyes the cat, who looks like it's already nodding off, and warns, "Don't get too comfy. I'm not running a hotel."
The cat purrs sleepily.
"I mean it," Spike insists. "One night and you're back on the street."
~*~
Spike is frowning at rows of Fancy Feast in the grocery store when Joyce Summers finds him.
"Spike?" she ventures, like there's a possibility she might be mistaking him for someone else. She's clutching her purse straps tightly. "What're you doing here?"
He hides his surprise by shoving his hands in his pockets, affecting a casual tone . "Oh, well, you know. Just… having a shop. All work and no play, and all that."
She glances skeptically between his face and the shelves stocked with pet food.
"Say, maybe you can help me," Spike tells her, leaning in a little. "Which one of these is best, would you say?"
"The cat food? Well, I think it—" Joyce draws up warily, resuming the death-grip on her purse like it's a stake. "Wait—you're not evil right now, are you?"
Spike likes Joyce. Probably he'll spare her when he kills her daughter.
"Let's call it a mandatory vacation," he tells her.
"I see," Joyce says cautiously. "That's nice."
Spike raises an eyebrow. "The cat food?"
"Oh, well." Joyce tuts in a distinctly motherly fashion that makes Spike's skin itch, reaching across him to grab a can of Fancy Feast for inspection. "This one is—do you have a cat?"
"Ah, well, you know how it is," Spike hedges. He glances casually at the ceiling. "This stupid git keeps following me around, you know, just really won't leave me alone, and he's not all there, if you know what I mean. Figure if I don't feed him he'll just starve to death."
"I see," Joyce says again, then frowns. "You're not gonna eat him, are you?"
"Wouldn't be any sport in it," Spike says absently.
Joyce says, "That's nice. They always make a big deal out of this brand in the commercials, but I've always thought it was overrated."
"See, that's what I was thinking!" Spike narrows his eyes at the ponce of a white cat on the tin. "It's all mamby-pamby nonsense if you ask me. And my—this cat, he's a man of the people. Just give him three square—how often do cats eat?"
"Oh, now that's a good question." Joyce puts the can back on the shelf and smiles wistfully. "I haven't had a cat since I was a little girl, she was—oh, what am I saying? You don't care about this."
Joyce gave Spike hot cocoa with little marshmallows in it when he was humiliatingly pissed and hung up on Dru. The least he can do is incline his head indulgently.
"She was this beautiful gray tabby called Princess," Joyce says. "I made her this little pink collar with a bell on it and she used to follow me around the house—just the sweetest thing you've ever met. Although, sometimes she'd leave dead birds in my slippers, but I couldn't get too angry—it's just in their nature."
Spike's head tilt steepens. "In your slippers?"
"Oh, yes," Joyce says seriously. "I think I read somewhere that they're supposed to be presents. Cats hunt for each other, you know."
"Huh."
"Mhm." Joyce plucks a different brand off the shelf. "I think you can probably just follow the feeding instructions on here. Let's see… how big is this cat?"
Spike brightens as he gives his description. "Oh, he's a hefty fu—fellow. Pure muscle. About yea big around, but some of that's fur, you know."
"Hmm, this just does it by bodyweight," Joyce muses. "I don't suppose you weigh him?"
Spike says, "Never picked him up."
"You can probably just take your best guess." Joyce hands Spike the can. "If he lives outside most of the time, he probably uses up a lot of energy. Say, do you need a vet? My friend's husband, Joel, is a fantastic vet. Oh, drat, I think my address book's in my other purse."
Spike blinks. "Why would I take him to the vet? Does he sound sick to you? Sometimes when he's sleeping he makes this wheezing noise—"
"It's just preventative, Spike."
Joyce pats him on the hand—he curls his lip reflexively and she withdraws.
"I'll think about the animal doc," he says eventually.
Joyce nods. She makes a point of rummaging about in her bag for an extra moment before asking, "Say, have you heard from Buffy lately?"
The last time Spike saw the Slayer, she was having a mystical fuckfest with Soldier Boy in a haunted frat house.
"We don't really keep in touch," he says.
"Oh." Joyce frowns—disappointed? She whispers conspiratorially, "I thought you two… slayed together."
Bloody hell, you help avert an apocalypse one time and it ruins your reputation forever. Spike says, "Not really."
"Of course," she says, laughing dismissively. "Silly me."
Spike's voice softens against his will. "Buffy doesn't write home much, does she?"
"Oh, well," Joyce waves him off. "You know how it is. She's a college girl now, and she's always been so independent with her… slaying and everything. She hardly needed me, even when she was younger."
"That's a load of bollocks," Spike says indignantly. "You know, call me old-fashioned, but back in my day a person didn't just prance off and leave their mum all alone. There's responsibilities, something called loyalty—"
"Spike," Joyce interrupts, sounding a bit like she's humoring him, which is absurd. "I'm fine. That's sweet—weirdly sweet. But this is a normal part of growing up. I just like hearing she's okay."
Spike, face stinging furiously, starts dumping cans of cat food into his trolley.
"Were you close with your mother, then?" Joyce ventures gently.
Spike's throat burns. He says, "I killed her."
"Oh," says Joyce. "That's—well."
Spike stares at his cart—something like fifteen cans of cat food, Weetabix, two cases of beer. He hasn't had muffins in a while. Maybe he'll get muffins.
"Does she talk about me, then?" he asks. "Buffy."
"Um…" Joyce hesitates. "Talk about you?"
Damn it, what the hell is he doing? Spike shrugs at her and says, "Y'know, about how… evil I am? That I'm—I'm the Big Bad! I'm bloody dangerous and you should keep away from me and all that."
"Oh, well…" Joyce purses her lips, which makes her look vaguely avian. "No, I'm sorry, not really."
Spike shoves his hands in his pockets; he tries to lean against his cart, but it rolls away under his weight. "Right, no, yeah, that's—I don't even care, you know. Been busy, doing my own thing."
"Of course not," Joyce agrees very seriously. "And, Spike, Buffy's still a young woman, you know—she's got a lot of evil-fighting ahead of her. I'm sure she's just… keeping her options open, for a nemesis, right now."
"No, obviously," Spike scoffs. "It's better that way, actually. Don't need some Slayer messing with my plans." He looks up eagerly. "But you'll tell her that, though? That I've got really evil plans?"
Joyce readjusts her purse on her shoulder with a nod. "Next time she calls, I'll be sure to mention." She glances down at his cart. "Maybe I'll… leave out the part about the cat."
"Yeah, good, 'cause that's—I'll want the element of surprise on that," Spike says inanely. Christ, he needs to get out of this conversation. "Anyway, good seeing you, Joyce, best be going."
"Oh, Spike?" Joyce asks, stopping him right when he's about to wheel away. He tenses his shoulders, turning back around. "You know what I just thought of? You're not home much, are you?"
Spike stares at her.
"Well, it's just that with the wet food, you've gotta be there to feed it fresh," Joyce explains, slipping into Mum Voice again. "A lot of people will leave out dry food so their pets can eat when they aren't around."
"Right," Spike says slowly. "Obviously I knew that."
"Of course," says Joyce.
Spike stares at the row of multicolored bags. "But if you were gonna pick one—?"
Joyce says, "Let's take a look."
~*~
"Look, I'm as disappointed as you are," Spike says, looking down at the cat sitting at his feet. "But that's what you get for shacking up with a vamp."
"Meow," the cat demands.
"Well, what were your dinner plans before I got home, hm?" Spike sighs and restacks the can of food on the windowsill. "You were just gonna order a pizza, were you?"
The cat warbles, "Meeeeoooowww."
"Fine." Spike pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters, "I'll get your sodding bowls tonight. I fucking hate the Walmart."
The cat screams at him all the way out the door.
~*~
Spike comes home (again) an hour and a half later, black and red plastic food bowls under one arm. He bought a tub of cat treats and bottled water too, because he might as well admit he's been whipped by a fourteen-pound moron.
The bowls have little pawprints around the rim. Spike hates himself.
"Lookee here," he says, waving the bag about. "You won't starve to death."
The cat pauses mid-grooming motion and stares at him.
"You're welcome," Spike tells it.
The cat goes back to licking its own arse.
Spike sets the bag down on the window sill he's been using as a shelf and peels the stickers off the new bowls. He pours fresh water into one of them, which he sets down on the floor, and then opens a can of wet food for the second.
"Chicken and salmon sound good?" he asks. He sniffs the contents, which smell awful if you ask him, but there's no accounting for taste.
That goes on the floor too, and Spike turns his attention to the dry food. The instructions on the bag go into detail about feeding by body weight, like Joyce said, but that's dumb.
Spike scoops dry food into the last bowl until it's full and puts it next to the others.
The cat is still hogging Spike's chair, completely oblivious.
"Uh, hello?" Spike says. "Weren't you starving to death earlier? We had this whole conversation about it."
No response.
"Oh, for God's—" Spike rolls the top of the bag closed and then scoops the cat up in his hands. It meows in protest, which he ignores. "Look, food. Food. Yummy."
He plops the cat down in front of the bowls, which seems to make it click. The cat meows and shoves its face directly into the wet food with a disgusting slurping noise that would gross Spike out if it didn't remind him of Darla.
Satisfied, Spike walks across the room to the mini fridge to make his own dinner. He pulls out the deli container and—
"Meow," says the cat.
Spike looks down at the cat. Then over at the food bowl, which is still almost full. Then down at the cat, who swishes its tail like the ungrateful bastard it is.
"Meow," the cat says.
"Look, I don't wanna hear it," Spike tells it. "Chicken and bloody salmon, take it or leave it."
"Meow." The cat walks towards the food dish, then swivels around and looks at him again. "Meow. Meow."
Spike raises an eyebrow. He takes an exaggerated step towards the cat.
The cat walks another few feet towards the food.
Spike, who has lost control of his life, follows all the way over.
The cat makes a contented chirping noise and sticks its head back in the food bowl.
~*~
So the cat will only eat if Spike watches its back. Fine. It's fine. Spike doesn't have any feelings about that at all.
~*~
Three days later, Spike is sprawled on the floor, sipping a mug of blood while Cat eats, when he hears a racket outside his door.
Spike starts to reach for an axe before he recognizes the voices.
"Spike?" asks Willow. "Are you home and, uh, can we come in?"
Spike scrambles to his feet.
"Why're you asking?" Xander says. "What's he gonna do, say mean things to us until we go away?"
"It's just polite," Willow chides.
Spike is very intimidatingly leaning against the back wall near the counter. He shouts, "What do you want?"
The door opens, revealing the entire Scooby gang minus the Slayer and her new boy toy. The whole lot of them pour inside—Giles, entering last, shuts the door behind them.
Xander says, "Trust us, we don't wanna be here either, but with Buffy out of town and Riley hiding—uh, what the hell is that?"
Cat hops up onto the counter and starts rubbing his stupid face all over Spike's arm, begging for attention.
Spike ignores him. "Buffy's out of town, you said?"
"Oh, she's in LA," Willow says. "Is that a cat?"
"Meow," Cat answers. He puts his front paws on Spike's shoulder and headbutts him on the jaw.
"Yeah, it's a cat," Spike says. "What do you want?"
Giles clears his throat and says, "Ah, yes, there's some kind of demon on the loose and it's somewhat time-sensitive, as you can imagine, and since you occasionally offer assistance in exchange for—I'm sorry, why is there a cat?"
Spike is scritching behind Cat's ears. "Ask him."
"Um, is it a normal cat?" Tara asks, which is interesting; she’s new—not one to speak up much. "Or—or do you think maybe he's been cursed or something?"
"Pretty sure he's just a normal cat," Spike says. "You were saying—"
"Are you sure? It's more common than you'd think," Anya chimes in. "When I had my powers, I turned lots of men into animals. Mostly pigs. Haha, this one time—"
Xander says, "Yeah, but why would a cursed dude hang out with Spike?"
"Why would a normal animal seek Spike's company?" Giles retorts.
Tara asks, "Have you tried asking him if he's cursed?"
Xander approaches Cat and crouches down to be at eye level. Speaking loudly and slowly, he says, "Blink twice if Spike is holding you hostage."
Cat hops down off the counter and approaches Tara.
"I got nothin'," says Xander.
"I dunno," Willow says doubtfully. "I've tried to communicate with rat Amy, but I don't think she's totally there, you know?" She frowns. "Unless we've had the wrong rat all this time."
Tara kneels down on the ground and scratches Cat under the chin. He eats it up, the bloody traitor. "He seems pretty normal to me. He's sweet."
"Pet cat!" Xander accuses, pointing harshly at Spike. "You've got a pet cat!"
"Take that back!" Spike demands.
"Aww, Spikey's gone soft," Xander continues, sticking his bottom lip out in an obnoxious pout. "Did you get lonely and find yourself a wittle friend?"
Spike growls, "The minute I get this chip out, Harris—"
"You'll what, feed me to your pet cat?"
"What's his name?" Willow asks eagerly. She's sitting on the floor next to Tara, leaning her cheek on her shoulder with fingertips brushing her thigh—which confirms a theory Spike's been working on.
"I've just been calling him Cat," Spike says.
Willow gasps. "Oh, no! He's gotta have a name. And toys! Where're all his toys?"
"He doesn't have toys," Spike says, exasperated. "He's not my pet."
"If you don't want him you should take him to a shelter," Tara says. "The one we got Miss Kitty Fantastico from is really nice. They're no-kill only so you don't have to worry."
Spike tenses. "He likes the graveyard."
"We could bring you some of Miss Kitty's old toys," Willow offers. "She's got, like, way too many."
"Willow, don't encourage him," Xander says.
"How do you know he's a boy cat?" Anya asks. "Does he still have his—"
"Don't grope the cat, sweetie."
Spike asks, "Is there an actual reason you're all here?"
"Wait, where did you find him, exactly?" Willow asks.
"Bloody hell." Spike leans his head back against the wall. "He kept following me around the graveyard at night, alright? Real friendly-like, and it was a pain in the arse keeping him out of here so I just let him in."
"Oh." Willow tilts her head thoughtfully. "Spike… you know he probably lives in that neighborhood across the street, right? Lots of indoor-outdoor cats visit other homes and stuff."
Spike did not know that.
"Obviously," he says. "What do you think I am, an idiot?"
"Well, the cat certainly is," Giles says haughtily.
Spike bristles. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Look at him," Giles says, gesturing with his glasses. "Clearly he's not very bright, if he's following the likes of you around."
"Rupert," Spike says brightly. "His name's Rupert."
Giles stiffens deliciously. "I'm sorry?"
"Aww, wittle Rupert," Willow says. She waggles her fingers at the cat. "I like it."
"Y-you can't name him that!" Giles protests.
Spike smirks. "Why not?"
"Because—" Giles stammers, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Because that's my name!"
"You should be flattered, mate." Spike grins wickedly. "You don't see the resemblance?"
Rupert jumps at Willow's hand, misses, and twists around mid-air before skittering into the wall. "Maow!"
"He's not very good at hunting," Anya says skeptically.
"Yes, thank you, Anya, we can see that," Giles says stiffly.
"Rupert!" Spike calls, crouching down on the ground and making kissy noises. "C'mere, Rupert."
Rupert's ears perk at the sound of Spike's voice. He says, "Meow," and trots over.
"That's right, Rupert," Spike coos. "Who's a good boy, Rupert? Come to Daddy, Rupert."
"Can we stake him?" Xander asks. "We can tell Buffy his chip malfunctioned."
"It was a dreadful accident, really," Giles threatens.
Spike's pretty sure they're full of shit. And besides, he could still make it past them if he had to. "That's a good little boy, Rupert, who wants kisses from Daddy?"
"Aww, he loves you so much!" Willow says. "Aren't you a little sweetie, Rupert?"
Giles sounds legitimately horrified. "I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, sorry, I mean the cat," Willow says. She furrows her eyebrows. "That'll get confusing, huh?"
"No, it won't, because Spike's not naming the cat—that—and also we are never speaking to him again," says Giles. "Goodbye."
"Don't get your knickers in a twist, human Rupert," Spike informs him cheerfully. "I'll help with your demon problem. Gotta keep Rupey-boy here in kibble, don't we?"
Giles says, "That's really not necessary. We'll figure it out ourselves."
"Actually, I've been thinking, how come Spike gets paid for helping and we don't?" Anya asks. "I think you should compensate all of us, Giles."
"An, we've talked about this," Xander reminds her. "Good people don't need rewards for saving the world. That's why they're good people, and also why some of us still live with our parents."
Spike looks up from petting Rupert and advises, "No, you lot should unionize. Evil doesn't do it for free, why should you?"
"I'm not sure that's entirely—" Giles sighs loudly. "How much do you want?"
Spike shrugs. "What kind of demon did you say it was?"
~*~
Spike staggers into his crypt just when he's starting to smoke from the sunrise. He half-heartedly shoves the door closed behind himself and then has to brace his hand on the wall before he tips over.
He managed to kill the bloody demon eventually, no thanks to his "help," but not the mate—who Giles conveniently forgot to mention, is now royally pissed off, and probably knows where Spike lives.
Spike's literally not getting paid enough.
He limps over to his recliner, which he collapses into immediately. His nose stings with the scent of demon guts and his own blood, which he's smearing all over the chair, but it's more comfortable than the concrete slab he calls a bed.
"Meow?" Rupert asks. He leaps onto the chair and starts kneading Spike's thighs with his claws.
"I fed you before I left," Spike grumbles. "You're not getting more out of me."
He's pretty hungry himself. The Scoobies had skipped away from the fight chittering about going to Denny's for some post-slayage breakfast, but no one invited Spike along and it's not like they serve blood or like he'd wanna spend more time with those white hats anyway, thanks ever so.
The fridge seems really far away. Spike'll just rest his eyes first.
Rupert licks at the blood on Spike's face.
"Freak," Spike mutters, smirking faintly.
"Mrrp," the cat agrees. He turns in a circle a few times before flopping against Spike's torso and starts to purr.
Spike's ribs ache from the fight. He slips his fingers into Rupert's fur and drifts to sleep.
~*~
"I'm not saying you did it on purpose," Spike is telling Rupert, one hand on his hip. "I'm saying that this shirt didn't have claw marks on it yesterday and only two people live in this crypt."
"Meow," says Rupert.
Spike scoffs. "Don't give me that—"
"Um, Spike?" Willow asks. "The door was open."
Spike whips around, hiding the shirt behind his back.
"Were you talking to the cat?" Willow is carrying a small cardboard box, which she puts down on top of the mini fridge.
"No," Spike says defensively. "'Course not."
"Oh, okay." Willow tilts her head. "Then who were you talking to?"
"... What's in the box?" Spike asks. "You finally track down that bloody demon?"
Willow frowns. "Not so much. Tara and I have tried two different demon tracking spells and neither worked. I think something must be messing with us?"
Spike shrugs. Not really his problem. "Giles still hasn't paid me for the first one, you know."
"I'll tell him you said so," Willow says. She glances around the room, fiddling with the hem of her sweater.
"What do you need, then?" Spike asks. "'Cause I was kinda in the middle of some—"
"Oh, sorry!" Willow pulls some kind of brightly colored feather duster out of the box. "I brought some toys for Rupert, like I said."
The toy has a bell on it, which catches Rupert's attention. His pupils dilate as he zeroes in on the thing in Willow's hand.
"Aww, looks like he likes it!" Willow crouches down and wiggles the feathery part of the toy along the floor.
Rupert drops into a crouch, his eyes darting back and forth as he tracks the motion. His tail swishes rhythmically as he gets ready to pounce. He actually looks pretty intimidating like that.
Then he takes a running leap directly into the mini fridge, which Spike's starting to worry might dent.
"Oops," Willow says sheepishly. "Sorry."
"Bah." Spike waves her off. "He's got a thick skull."
As evidenced by Rupert gracefully recovering by pretending to groom himself, then snatching the feathery bit between his teeth.
"Did the vet say that?" Willow asks.
"Metaphorically speaking," Spike clarifies.
She quirks her lips, accepting this.
Rupert rolls onto the ground with the toy still in his clutches, gnashing his teeth and kicking at it with his back legs.
Willow laughs, smiling at Rupert, which makes Spike feel weirdly… proud? He shifts uncomfortably, wringing the shirt in his hands.
"Hey, uh, does Kitty Fantastica or whoever like these tuna ones?" he asks, holding a can up for Willow to see. "For some reason Rupe doesn't really go in for 'em, so…"
"Oh, yeah, she'll eat anything," Willow says. "But you know, I just brought this stuff over to be nice. You don't have to give me anything."
Spike narrows his eyes at her in confusion.
"But if you wanted to, I could trade you for the turkey and cheese ones!" Willow offers quickly. "Kitty eats them, but I hate looking at all the cheese bits—skeevy."
"... Yeah, okay," Spike says.
"Great! Well, I'll just—" Willow stands abruptly, dropping the feather duster, which makes Rupert chirp in confusion. "Get outta your hair!"
"You could stay," Spike says, and then immediately considers pitching himself out the window.
Willow blinks at him.
"Not for me. Rupert likes you, so…" Spike flounders. "And he's got all this energy, it's a pain in the arse keeping up with him, so you'd be doing me a favor if you wore him out, really."
"Um, well, I promised Tara I'd meet her at the coffee shop after her class ends?" Willow says, biting her bottom lip. "But I could stay for a little?"
Spike scoffs dismissively and plops down into his recliner. "Do whatever, I don't care."
He watches out of the corner of his eye—Willow rummages in the box for another toy and then sits down on the floor next to Rupert.
Well. Spike wasn't expecting that to work.
He fiddles with the remote. Should he turn on the telly? It would really sell that he doesn't care if he turned on the telly.
"So, uh." Spike turns on the telly but keeps the volume down low. "Is that, like, the spot?"
"Is what the spot and for what?" Willow asks.
"The coffee shop," Spike clarifies. "For dating."
Whatever Willow was holding clatters to the ground. "What? Dating? Um, no, Tara and I aren't—"
Spike turns his head to look at her. Her posture's changed—she's more rigid, wary of him again, which he gets: he'd use anything against her if he needed to. It feels good to know she's still afraid of him.
"How'd you know?" she asks worriedly. "Is it super obvious?"
Rupert paws at her hand, getting impatient that she isn't playing with him still.
Spike says, "To me? Yeah, but I wouldn't worry about your little friends figuring it out. They're not exactly an observant bunch."
Willow accepts his insult-as-peace-offering and picks up Rupert's toys again. "I guess the coffee shop's pretty popular, yeah. Or the Bronze, especially if you wanna meet people."
"Hm." Spike casually turns back to the TV. "Does the Slayer hang out there a lot?"
"Um, I guess she—" Willow cuts off indignantly. "Hey, wait! Why do you wanna know?"
Spike holds up his hands disarmingly. "I don't! Just making conversation, jeez. Isn't this the kind of thing you people talk about?"
"... I guess," says Willow. "Sorry. It's just that—usually when you're talking to us, it's to threaten to kill us, or find out stuff you can use to try and kill us."
Oh, okay. That Spike can work with.
"Psh, well, obviously I'm still gonna kill you once I get this chip out," he retorts. "But seeing as that's on hold, we're good for now."
"That's fair." Willow's voice brightens. "Hey, do you think maybe you'll give us a warning when the chip comes out? You know, to set the rules of engagement and stuff."
Spike raises his eyebrows and says, "I think I'll probably just kill you."
"Worth a shot," Willow says with a shrug, sounding neither surprised nor disappointed.
Spike turns up the volume two tics.
"It doesn't wig you out?" Willow asks timidly.
Spike glances drily at her. "The chip in my brain that's keeping me from my two main hobbies—killing people and eating them—and left me at the mercy of my sworn enemies? Nah, I'm over the bloody moon about it."
"I meant me and Tara," Willow clarifies wryly, then frowns.
Spike turns the volume back down.
Willow continues, "She's not saying anything about it, but I told Buffy and she's totally wigging."
"Oh, that." Spike shrugs noncommittally. "I've been around a long time and—trust me, you're nothing I haven't seen before, pet."
Or participated in, but Spike's not invested enough in this little truth circle to go there.
"I think you meant for that to be comforting?" Willow says. "So thanks, I guess."
Spike shrugs again.
Willow rolls a jingle ball toy across the floor; Rupert pounces on it, then bats it under the recliner and starts pacing around in circles when he can't see it anymore.
"Meow?" he whines. "Meeeooow."
"For God's sake," Spike mutters. He smiles to himself and leans over—the chair tilts precariously, but he manages to knock the ball loose from underneath.
Willow catches it and rolls it towards Rupert again.
"Hey," she says, reaching up to grab a second ball. "You don't care what people think, do you? You're all rebel-y."
"Nope," Spike says. He leans back in the recliner, kicking his feet up on the footrest and folding his hands behind his head. "Not one bit."
"See, that's how I need to be!" Willow decides, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'll just—I'll just stop caring if they're gonna judge me about Tara. And besides, it's not like they're ones to talk, weird relationships-wise, I mean, Xander's dating a demon— oh, no offense—"
"None taken," Spike says, amused.
"And Buffy dated Angel and we all saw how great that turned out!" Willow fixes Spike with a surprisingly menacing glare, like she's daring him to disagree, and declares, "I'm the normal one."
Spike suddenly and completely randomly remembers that he's talking to a very powerful witch.
"Absolutely normal," he agrees. "Couldn't be more normal. And besides, they'll probably just be happy you're over Wolf Boy."
Willow rolls her shoulders back, gesturing with annoyance. "See, that's the other thing! They all acted like they weren't, but they were so tired of me being sad about Oz, like I wasn't allowed to have feelings about it."
"Yeah!" Spike encourages, mirroring her indignance.
"It was like they didn't get it." Willow's given up on playing with Rupert—he butts his head against her arm and she reaches over to pet him automatically. "I mean, Buffy should've, right? But she just smushes all her feelings down like a big, mushy… feelings pile! I don't want a feelings pile."
"It ain't right," Spike agrees. "You've gotta let that shit out, or it festers."
Willow nods resolutely. "No festering here. I'm fester-free."
"Cheers, love," Spike tells her, though he's got nothing to toast with. He settles for a mock salute.
She returns it crookedly.
"I am gonna have to kill you for that 'my will be done' spell you did, though," Spike warns. He sticks out his tongue, exaggerating his disgust. "Snogging the Slayer? Worst night of my un-life."
"Oh, you got off easy," Willow chides. "Xander and Anya almost died!"
Spike ignores her. "I do get it, though, believe you me. You saw what I was like when Dru left me—wish you didn't, but you did."
"Oh, yeah, that was pretty bad," Willow agrees with a laugh. "But hey, look at us! We bounced back."
Spike's not sure his current state counts as 'bounced back,' but he's not about to admit that now. "They're just not like you and me, is all."
"'You and me?'" Willow asks, her nose wrinkling. She winces when Rupert bats at her hand. "Oh, sorry kitty."
She goes back to petting him. Spike says, "Yeah, you know. That for us, love is 'til you die. 'Til the world ends."
"I didn't think…" Willow glances at him nervously. "Not to be rude or anything, but can you really… love someone like that? When you don't have a soul, I mean."
The chair creaks when Spike leans away, his ribs bending like someone's landed a good kick. He can't find anything to say for a moment—nothing that'll leave his throat without sticking.
You taste like ashes, Dru said.
"'Course I can," Spike says. "That's not where it lives."
"Oh," Willow says. "I—I'm sorry."
Spike sinks his weight into the chair again and stares flatly at the telly.
"She was my destiny, you know—Dru," he says. "She made me. And she leaves me, says I don't…"
"Um, I should go," Willow says, rising to her feet. He watches her wince out of the corner of his eye—red marks on her knees where she knelt on the concrete too long. "I—Tara's probably on her way there already, and I don't wanna worry her."
Spike waves her off. "Fine. Enjoy your little date."
"But, um, maybe later I'll bring by that wet food—so we can trade?" she offers brightly. "And—and you can tell me about Drusilla!"
Spike eyes her more directly. She's probably just humoring him so he'll let her leave, but whatever. It's not like he wanted her loitering around here in the first place.
"Yeah, alright," he snarks. "I'll put the kettle on."
Willow waves goodbye and slips out the door.
Spike watches it shut, the quiet settling back over the room. It's late afternoon; still a few hours before it's a smart idea to go anywhere—not that he lets that stop him. But there's nowhere to be, either.
Rupert bats at one of the jingle balls on the floor, sending it flying across the room. He charges after it in a blur of orange, careening around the telly stand and upending his water bowl in the process.
He snatches the ball up in his mouth, tracks wet pawprints across the floor, and drops the damp toy into Spike's lap.
"Right," Spike says to the empty room. "So those were a declaration of war, were they?"
~*~
Spike adjusts his hold on the armchair he's lugging back to his crypt; it doesn't actually feel heavy to him, the perks of vampire strength and all, but it's a pain in the arse to get a good grip on while still looking where he's going.
It was a good find, though—pretty good condition for curbside furniture. He'll have to rearrange the room to make sure it has a good angle to the telly.
A muffled meow comes from somewhere under Spike's line of sight.
Spike freezes. Didn't he lock the cat in when he left this evening? "Rupe?"
"Mmow!"
"Bloody—" Spike lofts the chair to the side, which makes one of the legs dig into his hip, and uncovers Rupert sitting at his feet. "What's in your mouth?"
Rupert trots off without him.
"Oi!" Spike shouts after him more insistently. "What's in your mouth?"
No response. At least he's heading in the direction of the crypt. Spike sighs, fixes his hold on the armchair, and shuffles after him as quick as he can manage.
"Bloody Houdini," Spike mutters, glancing around the graveyard to make sure no one's watching. What a picture he'd be. "Stupid, trouble-making little bastard."
Rupert is clawing at the door when Spike catches up to him.
"Well, how did you get out then?" Spike complains. He drops the armchair to shove the door open, then drags it inside.
Rupert waits patiently for Spike to put down the chair—he leaves it next to the recliner for now, too impatient to decorate—and then drops whatever he's been holding at Spike's feet.
"Right, thanks so much for the—" Spike crouches down to examine the offering, then stops short. "Dead mouse?"
"Meow," says Rupert, staring at him expectantly.
Spike dangles the ratty thing by its tail, squinting at it—broken neck. He sits down on the ground, hard, and thinks about what Joyce said.
Spike's never been one for rodent blood—that mess was pathetic, tortured-soul Angel's deal—and even if he were, a tiny mouse like this would barely be finger food.
But Rupert—dumb as a sack of hammers, leaving a dent in Spike's minifridge because he can't bloody catch a stationary feather duster— Spike's Rupert— brought this home and left it at his feet.
"You did good, Rupe," he says, and the new chair must be mustier than he thought because the words scratch up his throat. "Thanks."
Rupert puts his front paws on Spike's thigh and nuzzles his head along Spike's wrist. "Mrrp!"
Cautiously, Spike shifts into vamp face. Predator teeth contorting the shape of his mouth, dead-thing eyes that can suddenly see in the dark as he brings the gift to his lips.
Rupert begins to purr.
~*~
Spike is hunched over his book, greedily flipping to the next page with his breath—so to speak—caught in his throat. Dain and Jessica just got walked in on at the ball, which will obviously ruin Jessica's reputation, and—
"Meeeooow!" Rupert wails. "Meowmeowmeow!"
Spike jumps, dropping Lord of Scoundrels to the ground, and curses vehemently. He whips his head around, looking for the source of the noise, but Rupert's nowhere to be found.
Rupert continues his warbling. "Meeeooow."
It sounds like he's—above him? No, outside. Both?
Spike looks up, peering at the high windows and columns that punctuate the crypt. Plenty of places an idiot cat could hide, but no dice. He sighs, glad that it's at least after sunset, and follows the sound of Rupert's caterwauling outside.
"Meow," says Rupert, who is on the roof.
"Oh, bloody hell!" Spike complains, throwing his hands up in frustration. "How'd you even get up there?"
Rupert peers nervously over the roof's edge. "Meow?"
"Well, I'm not climbing after you," Spike tells him. "If you got up there, you can get down."
"Meow!"
"No, and that's final."
"Meeeooow."
Spike sighs, taking in the pitiful look on his cat's face. He looks around for something to give him a step up—he could probably scale the wall, but jumping down from that height without hurting Rupert in the process would be harder.
Although…
"Come to Daddy, Rupert," Spike coaxes, holding out his arms. "I'll catch you."
Rupert deliberates for a moment, hovering one paw over the edge, the scurries back up the roof.
"C'mon, you git, you've made stupider decisions." Spike sighs, exasperated, and makes kissy noises. "Inhuman reflexes, remember? Get down here so Daddy can go back to his stories."
"Maow?" Rupert approaches the edge again, staring down at Spike with panic-wide eyes.
"I promise," Spike says. "Not gonna let anything happen to you."
Rupert crouches in preparation.
"Heya, Spike!" Xander shouts, sprinting past him at full-tilt, not that that's particularly fast, with Tara right behind. "How's it going mind if we come in thanks!"
Spike turns to gawk at the two of them bolting into his crypt at the exact moment Rupert makes his jump—he slams into Spike's shoulder, claws fully extended, and rakes halfway down Spike's back before Spike twists around to catch him.
"Fucking—" Spike hisses, clutching a writhing mass of terrified cat to his chest, a sentiment promptly doubled when the three vampires that were apparently chasing Xander and Tara charge straight for him. "Bollocks."
Spike loves a fight. He really loves a fight he's not supposed to win. Stacked odds, high stakes, glory and death and the brutal truth that the only way his blood flows is out of him—the knife's edge of being dead-alive to die again and three to one sounds like a pretty good show.
Rupert mewls in Spike's ear.
Spike runs.
Xander and Tara slam the door shut behind him as soon as he makes it inside. He can feel blood trickling down his back from Rupert's claws, which are still lodged in his shoulder; he has to angle his body to avoid squishing Rupert’s paws in the door when he throws his full weight against it to keep the vamps from breaking it down.
“It’s cool! We’re safe now, right?” Xander asks, gesturing outside. “Don’t they need an invite?”
“I’m dead, you moron!” Spike hisses. He winces when the door slams into his back. “I can’t own anything.”
Xander shoots Spike a look of pure annoyance—but he throws his weight against the door to help Spike hold it shut. “Well, if you ask me, that seems like a design flaw!”
“M-maybe they’ll go away?” Tara offers.
Spike leans his head back, squeezing his eyes shut as he takes a resolute breath.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says, and shoves Rupert into a startled Tara’s arms. “Watch him. If anything happens to him, I swear to God I’ll fucking kill you both myself, chip be damned.”
Xander and Tara stare at him.
Spike gestures angrily. “Away from the bloody door! There’s a way to the sewer in the back—and get me a bloody stake.”
Xander tosses one in Spike’s direction as he steers Tara to the back of the crypt. Spike hears the sound of his furniture being rearranged into a barricade—he gives Harris ten seconds before he side-steps away from the door, sending two of the vampires stumbling into the room.
Spike stakes the first one before he even gets his bearings. The second regains her footing with a snarl, her eyes darting around the room, and the third charges in after them.
Two on one isn’t nearly as fun. Spike licks his lips, flashing his fangs when he goes vamp.
“Helping humans now, Spike?” one of the vamps sneers. “You really have gone soft.”
“I don’t even know your name, mate,” Spike shoots back. "Good thing I don't need it to kill you."
He lunges for the first one, ducking low to avoid a punch. His opponents are scrappy, but they don't fight like a team—there's no rhythm to it, no intimacy. Just two vampires who want to kill the same bloke.
It's nothing like when Spike and Dru fight together. Not even like—
The taller one lands a cracking blow to Spike's sternum; he stumbles backwards with a snarl and catches himself against the windowsill. His stake clatters to the floor—all three of them eye it in a split-second of hesitation before everyone lunges.
It's a flurry of movement, grappling for—
"Mrooooow!" Rupert yowls. "Meowmeow—"
"Shh, Rupert," Tara whispers desperately.
"—meowmeowmeow—"
"Is that a cat?" asks the taller vampire.
Spike stakes her in the chest.
The third vampire scurries out the door before Spike can do the same to her.
Spike cracks his neck, running his tongue over his fangs, and sets the stake on top of the telly. There's the shuffling of footsteps, and then Tara, Rupert, and Xander emerge from behind their makeshift barricade.
Rupert twists out of Tara's grip and drops to the ground—then darts over to Spike, purring happily and winding between his legs.
"There's my boy," Spike coos with relief, scooping Rupert up into his arms. He buries his nose into his fur and murmurs, "Told you nothing'd happen to you."
"Uh, this is really touching, and I mean that in the disturbing way," Xander says. "But we should go."
Spike scowls. "Nothing's stopping you."
"God, I wish that were true," says Xander.
Tara eyes him exasperatedly, then turns to Spike and explains, "Um, we were actually looking for you before we got attacked. Mr. Giles sent us."
Rupert bites down on Spike's earlobe. He scritches behind his ears and asks, "What for?"
"Willow figured out how to track down that demon," Tara says.
"You know, the one that wants to kill you?" Xander adds. He shrugs with his hands in his pockets. "Personally, I thought we should give it a head start, but I got outvoted."
Spike ignores him. "Well, what's the deal, then?"
"No clue," Xander says.
"Then why are you here?" Spike asks, not unlike he's talking to a very dumb child.
"To… tell you to go talk to Giles." Xander looks around the crypt pointedly. "You know, this would be a lot easier if you had a phone—but then you could call us, and I don't really want that."
Spike presses his free hand to his temple. "Then why didn't Giles come himself?"
There's a beat. Xander and Tara look between each other uneasily.
"What?" Spike demands.
"Um, Mr. Giles doesn't like Rupert," Tara tells him. "I think maybe he's allergic?"
Xander adds, "His exact words were, 'If God has mercy, I'll never have to see that dreadful cat again,' I'm pretty sure."
Rupert meows loudly in Spike's ear.
"Right," Spike says, grinning. "Let's go then."
He adjusts his grip on Rupert and heads for the door.
"Uh, Spike?" Xander says. "Aren't you gonna put the cat down?"
"No," Spike says gleefully. "No, I don't think I am." He wiggles one of Rupert's paws and coos, "Who wants to go on a little field trip with Daddy?"
"Tara," Xander asks, following Spike out of the crypt. "Know any spells that can make me deaf?"
~*~
The walk to Giles' has been uneventful, unless you count the multiple people who stop them to compliment the cat. Which Spike doesn't. Who cares if everyone likes Rupert? Of course they would.
Halfway there, Rupert wriggles out of Spike's arms and clambers onto his shoulder. He digs his claws in for balance, which hurts like a bitch, but at least it frees up Spike's hands again.
"Um," Tara says when Spike lights up a cigarette. "I'm p-pretty sure that's b-bad for the cat."
Spike side-eyes her. "What are you, a copper?"
He snuffs the cigarette as soon as she's not looking.
They walk past that coffee shop Willow was talking about—or, probably, anyway. Spike's seen the Scoobies in it a few times, and it's close to their campus.
"So, the Slayer's still MIA, huh?" he ventures. "What, she get tired of playing hero?"
"She's not 'MIA,' she's—" Xander cuts off in irritation. "You know, whenever I tell you things, I regret it."
Tara says, "She's looking for Faith—that other Slayer who went to jail and stuff? Buffy's pretty sure she went to LA."
"Well, isn't that convenient," Spike comments snidely. "Hate to break it to you, mate, but she's probably just shacked up with Angel."
"Uh, as-if," Xander says. "That thing's way over. Buffy's with Riley now."
Spike scoffs. "Oh, please. Like G. I. Droll could hold her interest when she's got Tall, Dark, and Broo—actually, they're both pretty boring, come to think of it. Slayer’s got tragic taste."
"Oh, Spike, you’ve met Angel?" Tara asks—he snorts in response.
Xander says, "We so do not have time for that story."
Spike tells her, "We ran together back in the day. I had this gang, you know—the four of us, causing trouble. Angelus was alright, I guess. He kinda looked up to me."
"That doesn't sound right," says Xander, "but I never really paid attention while Angel talked."
"So… you're pretty old now," Tara points out, then winces. "I—I mean, you've been alive a long time."
Spike snorts and light-heartedly warns, "Careful, love. I'm not even two-hundred."
Tara looks at him curiously. "Is it ever weird for you? I mean, watching the world change so much."
Huh. Spike shrugs, which makes Rupert meow in complaint. He reaches up a hand to steady him and says, "Never thought about it that way. There's some new stuff that's pretty cool— loved when they invented the telly. And that onion thing at the Bronze."
Xander says, "You know that's just a knock-off from Outback Steakhouse, right?"
Spike scoffs. "I'm not gonna go to Australia to eat a bloody onion."
"Okay, I can't believe I'm saying this," says Xander. "But I'm taking you to dinner."
"That's a cool outlook, though," Tara tells Spike, smiling crookedly. "Still being excited about the future and all."
"What can I say?" Spike answers breezily. "I live in the moment."
It's not like he had much to miss. The world he died in didn't want him.
Rupert totters on Spike's shoulder and meows in his ear, begging to be let down.
Spike twists around, trying to contort at an angle that will let him scoop Rupert back into his arms—the damn cat would probably get himself lost—or worse, trampled—if he followed on foot, but Rupe gets scared when Spike goes to lift him off and digs in with his claws.
"Damn it," Spike mutters, stumbling out of the way of some lady at the last second because he's not watching where he's going. "Just c'mere, you git."
"Oh, here, let me help," Tara offers. She reaches over and gently tugs Rupert's paws free, lifting him up so Spike can grab him. "Kitty Fantastico does that all the time."
Spike says, "Thanks," and cradles Rupert with one arm. "They get their bloody claws stuck in everything, don't they?"
"Meow!" Rupert protests.
"We all saw you," Spike tells him. "No need to save face."
"So, the cat thing," Xander asks, looking at Tara. "Were you two already dating, or was that part of the seduction plan?"
"Oh, Red told you?" Spike asks with surprise. He smiles ruefully. "Good for 'er."
Xander blinks rapidly. "Wait, you knew? Willow told the evil vampire before me?"
Spike says, "Not that I care, but in fairness—"
"I mean, seriously?" Xander rants. "We've been best friends since kindergarten, but noo, let's tell Spike first. I mean, you literally suck! Why would she think you'd be cooler about it than me? Wait." Xander jabs a finger into Spike's chest, narrowly missing prodding Rupert instead. "You were cool about it, right? 'Cause if you gave her a hard time—"
"She's gay, mate," Spike quips, waggling his eyebrows cheekily. "She doesn't want a hard time. Not from me, anyway."
Tara giggles.
Xander is glaring at Spike like he's actually capable of being intimidating. "I mean it, pal."
Spike rolls his eyes, holding his free hand up in defeat. "Like I could care less who any of you are bumpin' uglies with. I just wanna get paid."
"So if you don't care, why'd she tell you?" Xander demands.
"Like I was saying—and I can't believe I'm going through the trouble of saying it," Spike answers testily, "she didn't tell me, I noticed— because unlike you, I knew what being queer was before today."
Xander protests, "I knew what—" he cuts off. "Wait, are we allowed to say that word? I'm confused about what words we're allowed to say."
Spike rolls his eyes.
"Um, guys? Mr. Giles doesn't know yet," Tara says nervously—they're approaching his neighborhood. "So please don't…"
"Why not?" Spike asks curiously. "Are you worried the old man's gonna have a problem with it? 'Cause if he is, if one of you whacks him real hard I can eat 'im for you."
Tara says, "N-no, but… thanks?"
"See, I don't get it," Xander says. "Why didn't she tell us sooner?"
"Well, it's just that, um, Willow cares a lot about what Mr. Giles thinks," Tara explains earnestly. "And even if you don't think someone's gonna wig out, you can never know for sure, you know? So it's scary."
Xander's expression is just as earnest, if not a little indignant too. "But the shit we've been through is insane. The fact that after all that she still didn't trust us—"
"Oh, for God's sake!" Spike snaps. He startles Rupert, who digs his claws into Spike's chest with a squawk. "What this one is saying, which you'd know if you got your head out of your arse, is that when you've got something that makes you different, telling the people you actually care about is worse."
Xander blinks at him.
"Red doesn't give a flying rat fuck about my opinion," Spike continues irritably. "She's got nothing to lose if I'm a bigot—and you all expect it from me anyway. She's scared to tell you lot because she loves you or whatever, and can you shut up about it already?"
Neither of them answer him, which he figures technically gets him what he wants. He scoffs and stalks ahead, petting Rupert soothingly, glancing around at the neighborhood as the streetlamps turn on.
There's a tension in the air now, slowly thickening the longer no one speaks, but that's not Spike's problem. It's not like he started it.
He walks right in when they get there, still cradling the cat in one arm—Giles is reading something on the couch and doesn't look up right away.
"Oh, good, I was beginning to—oh, bloody hell!" He gestures at Rupert. "Why is—is that here?"
Spike replies with a shit-eating grin. "Just taking old Rupert here out for a stroll. Hey, Red, heard you tracked down my demon."
"Oh, yeah! It's actually pretty cool!" Willow says eagerly, wandering back in from the kitchen. "You know how the locator spells Tara and I were trying kept messing up? Well, I thought about how the Initiative tracks demons using something specific to them, like pheromones or something."
Spike nods, setting Rupert down on the ground.
"Oh, for—" Giles gripes. "It doesn't have a leash?"
Willow keeps talking. "Well, it turns out this demon emits its own magnetic field—weird, right?"
Spike is busy watching Rupert sniff around the room; he makes a noncommittal noise.
"So basically, you've just gotta take this compass and when the needle starts freaking out and stops pointing North, you're getting close," Willow continues. "Based on its feeding habits, I think I've narrowed down where it probably lives."
Rupert's eyes lock onto something on Giles' bookshelf—nothing noteworthy that Spike can see, but he swears this damn cat can visualize extra dimensions. Not unlike Dru, come to think of it.
"Erm, Spike," Giles says. "If you could just—"
Rupert leaps through the air, scrabbles for purchase on the bookshelf ledge, and tumbles to the ground taking multiple books with him. "Meow!"
"Naughty Rupert!" Spike scolds with a gasp. He crouches down to scritch behind Rupert's ears—making sure he's okay, not that anyone needs to know that. "Someone's being a bad boy. Is Daddy gonna have to put Rupert in time-out?"
Giles makes a subverbal noise of posh displeasure and tops off his glass of scotch.
"Aww, Rupert's not naughty!" Willow coos. She kneels next to Spike on the floor, stacking the toppled books out of the way and petting Rupert's back. "He's a good wittle kitty. That was such a big jump, Rupey-boy! You did so good!"
"Willow," Giles says pleasantly in a tone that betrays barely-suppressed seething rage. "If we could refrain from, ah, encouraging the cat…"
Spike grins. "'Rupey-boy,' I like that. Rupester, Rupeykins, RuRu…"
"Bertie," Xander supplies sardonically.
"We have a somewhat urgent matter to attend to," Giles says desperately.
Spike looks over at him. "Sorry, human Rupert, what was that?"
Giles' voice is terse. "The demon. If you want to get paid, I suggest you do your job."
"Oh, right—that." Spike sits cross-legged on the floor. "You know, you still haven't paid up for the first one I did. I don't work for free, mate, I've got mouths to feed."
"Yeah, you've gotta buy baby Rupert lotsa toys and treaties," Willow agrees. She smooshes Rupert's face gently between her hands and gives him a kiss on the head, which he tolerates with a flick of his tail.
Spike looks at Giles pointedly. "What the lady said."
"You'll get paid when both the demons are disposed of." Giles takes his glasses off and cleans them on his shirt. "And if Buffy returns before you get around to it…"
"Alright, alright, let's not get carried away," Spike protests. "I'll go now. Someone's gotta watch Rupert, though—you don't mind if he stays here, do you?"
Giles sits up indignantly. "I most certainly do! I don't even want him here right now!"
"Well, we're burning moonlight, human Rupert," Spike says, rising to his feet. "I can't take him all the way back to the crypt. You want your demon done or not?"
"We can watch him!" Willow offers. "Do you think he'd get along with Miss Kitty?"
Tara adds, "We're supposed to socialize her with other cats now that she's old enough."
Spike turns to them with surprise—he was really just enjoying getting a rise out of Giles, but—
"Yeah," he says. "That'd be great. Thanks."
Willow makes kissy noises as she picks Rupert up. "You hear that, Mister Rupeykins? You're gonna have a sleepover with Miss Kitty! Oof, you're a big boy, Rupert."
"I wish for you all to leave," Giles says evenly.
Xander says, "I'm out," and waves Giles goodbye.
"Oh, let me just show you the map," Willow tells Spike, handing Rupert off to Tara so she can draw on a printed-out map on the table—Spike follows her over. "See these cliffs on the oceanfront? There's a lot of caves around here."
"Yeah, alright," says Spike. "You've got a compass?"
Willow holds ones out for him.
Spike says, "Thanks."
"Sure thing." Willow folds up the map, tucking her hair behind her ear. "You can come pick Rupert up whenever, pretty much. We'll probably be up pretty late studying."
Spike snorts, a euphemism on the tip of his tongue, but a glare from Willow keeps his mouth shut. Better not piss off the babysitter.
"He already ate," Spike says instead. "But he'll eat dry food if you leave it out. He gets a can of wet around sunset—I mean, I'll probably be back tonight, but if something happens—"
"We'll take care of him," Willow says, smiling humorously in a way that sets Spike's teeth on edge—like he's about to be the butt of a joke.
He unclenches his jaw and says, "Right then. Off I go."
"Thank God," mutters Giles.
Spike gives him a two-finger salute on his way out the door. "Ta!"
He kicks the door shut behind him. There's a brief moment of panic, worrying if Rupert'll be alright—which immediately warps into horror and disgust, because apparently his after life now consistents of caring about a magnificently stupid cat and trying to track down a demon using nothing besides his trusty map and compass like he's in that stupid Dora the Explorer cartoon he watches when he can't sleep.
With any luck, he'll at least get a good fight out of it.
~*~
Spike's been trapped in the cave for eight, maybe nine hours by the time Tara finds him.
It took him forever to find the right spot last night, and then the fucking demon heard him coming and took off running and what do you know, all the caves are connected, and by the time he killed the damn thing and got back to the surface it was a sodding beautiful sunny Southern California day.
He tried to sleep for a while, but now he's resorted to muttering poetry under his breath out of boredom. Nothing he'd ever write down—given his luck these days, Buffy or one of the Scoobies would find it and he'd never hear the end of it. But it's helping pass the time. Maybe part of him missed it.
He recognizes Tara's footsteps echoing on the stone, though, and he shuts his mouth long before she gets close enough to ask, "Um, Spike? Are you in here?"
"Yeah," Spike calls. He stretches, folding his hands behind his head—the movement aggravates a rib that hasn't finished setting; he conceals a wince. "Just waiting out the daylight."
"Is—is the demon dead?" Tara turns the corner and her eyes land on the body. "Oh, that's good."
Spike raises an eyebrow at her. "What were you gonna be, the cavalry?"
Tara shrugs, scuffing her foot against the salt water dampened rock. "We tried your crypt first, when you didn't come back for Rupert, but then I thought about where the caves were and I thought m-maybe something like this happened."
"Yeah, not to worry, pet," Spike says, pushing to his feet with a grunt. "I'm not pawning the little nuisance off on ya. You can just lock him in the crypt—I'll be back once the sun goes down."
"Oh, um, Anya's there with him now, actually," Tara says. "Willow had to go to class. I just wanted to make sure you d-didn't need help… or, you know, if you were dead, I guess."
If he needed… help? Spike tucks his hands under his armpits, fingers scrunching restlessly in his leather duster, that irritatingly-familiar itch back under his skin. Side-effect of the chip maybe, making his nerves twitch and crawl.
"Not dust yet, sorry to disappoint," he says. She's dressed like she's going to her little college classes, cute skirt and chunky wedges—not like she should be in a cave with a demon and a dead body. "You can go."
"Can I br-bring you anything?" Tara asks wide-eyed. "Um, if we got you a blanket maybe you could—"
Spike scoffs dismissively. "Not the first time I've been holed up somewhere 'til sunset. I'll live."
"Um—um, okay." Tara scuffs her shoe across the ground again. "I guess I'll… see you later?"
"Still gotta get paid, don't I?" Spike says nonchalantly.
Tara nods nervously and leaves the way she came, back into the sunlight.
Spike listens to her footsteps receding until he's only imagining the echo in his head. He slumps to the floor again, leaning his head against the cave wall and pressing his tongue to the back of his teeth when groundwater seeps through his jeans.
Just a few hours until dusk. Then he'll be home again, alone.
~*~
Anya is sprawled sideways in Spike's recliner, her head hanging over the edge of one of the armrests. She's reading one of his bodice rippers, flipping raptly through the pages, and she doesn't even look up when Spike slinks inside.
"Uh," Spike says, leaning down to scratch a chirping Rupert under the chin. "Hullo?"
Anya turns another page. "They're taking forever to fuck in this one."
Spike glances at the cover. "I thought so too. Tara didn't tell you? I said you could go."
"I was in the middle of something," Anya says absently.
"In my house," Spike says slowly.
Anya hums.
Rupert tries to claw his way up Spike's leg; Spike picks him up and lets him climb onto his shoulder. "Rupe give you any trouble?"
"He's loud." Anya changes positions, leaning against the back of the chair. "But cute. I fed him one of those cans."
"Great, thanks." Spike shifts his weight awkwardly, waiting for a beat. "So… you can go now, then."
Anya still shows no sign of moving.
"... Wanna get drunk?" Spike ventures.
Anya turns to look at him eagerly. "Ooh, yeah! Whatcha got?"
"Only the finest in 'whatever I could nick from Giles,'" says Spike. He deposits Rupert in the empty armchair on his way to the liquor shelf. "Speaking of, man's turned into a bit of a lush, hasn't he?"
"I think he's bored and grumpy because he's unemployed," says Anya. "If I skip to the sex scene, will I be too confused?"
"Prob'ly not," Spike tells her, skimming his fingers over the collection of half-empty bottles. "I could lend you better books, though. I didn't like that one much—they don't have that chemistry, you know?"
Anya shrugs. "I'm still gonna finish it, but maybe after."
"Suit yourself." Spike pours them each a glass and comes to sit in the other chair with Rupe, reaching over to hand her the drink. "Cheers, then?"
Anya tilts her glass at him without looking up from her book. "Cheers!"
~*~
Spike shrugs into his coat, adjusting it so it lays properly, and then bends down to make sure his boots are laced tight enough—don't want another tripping-while-walking incident; he was lucky no one saw the first time.
He's just heading out for a walk, feeling a little stir crazy. Recreational demon violence doesn't have the same thrill it used to when anyone he pisses off might come looking for him and find Rupert. Speaking of—
"Maow," Rupert whines, sitting directly in front of the door. "Maaaoooow?"
Spike rolls his eyes fondly. "What, are you too lazy to go the other way?"
"Meow," says Rupert.
Spike still hasn't figured out how the damn cat gets in and out without him, which is remarkable considering one of them is supposed to be significantly smarter than the other.
Rupert keeps crying, craning his head back and flashing his teeth with a petulant meow.
"What is it, hm?" Spike asks. He stands up and rests his hands on his hips. "I already fed you."
Rupert pads over, puts his front paws on Spike's knee, and stares up at him with pleading eyes. "Meow! Meow!"
Something twinges in Spike's chest. He crouches down and Rupert immediately hops onto Spike's thigh, chirping happily.
"You don't want me to go, love?" Spike asks, throat going tight, his hand petting gently down Rupert's back. "Is that it?"
Rupert rubs his head against Spike's cheek, purring loudly in his ear. He kneads against Spike's thigh, claws plucking at his jeans, and leans into Spike's pets.
Spike closes his eyes and leans in too. He doesn't like leaving Rupert behind anyway—doesn't want him to be lonely. Or what if something happened to him? Spike couldn't bear it. It's—they're alone. No one needs to know he couldn't bear it.
"How about you come with me, hm?" Spike murmurs. He coaxes Rupert onto his shoulder and stands carefully, letting him get his balance. "Let's get some fresh air, Rupe."
"Meow!" Rupert agrees, wobbling for a minute before he steadies himself.
Spike heads outside, tucking his hands into his pockets once he shuts the door behind them. It's a nice night, three-quarter moon. Late enough that no one's taking a casual shortcut through the graveyard, but the city itself is probably plenty busy.
"What do you think, Rupe?" Spike asks, relishing the crisp breeze. "Coffee shop?"
The lady who owns it is alright; she lets Spike bring Rupert as long as they sit outside. Plus, he enjoys the people-watching—couples on bad first dates are his favorite.
Mind made up, Spike heads that way. He stops short, though, when he comes up on someone stalking the graveyard nearby.
One of those Initiative blokes, from the outfit and the way he's crouched behind a gravestone. Spike's backing away slowly, ready to grab Rupert off his shoulder and run, before he realizes that it's just Riley.
Riley's back is to Spike; obviously he's not the thing being hunted. He doesn't seem to have noticed Spike, either—off his game?
"Nice evening we're havin'," Spike says brightly.
"Jesus Christ!" Riley swears, which isn't very Good Christian Boy of him, and whips around with his crossbow pointed at Spike's chest. His eyes flick to Rupert. "What the fuck is that?"
Spike glances at Rupert too, who is staring blankly into the distance with no awareness of the bolt now aimed straight at him, and subtly angles him away from Riley.
"Uh, it's a cat, mate," Spike says slowly. "They didn't teach you about those in your fancy soldier club?"
"Camp," says Riley.
Spike looks down at his outfit. "I'm dressed the same as always."
"It's boot camp," Riley says irritably. "What's with the cat, Spike?"
"Oh, his name's Rupert." Spike plucks the cat into his arms and makes him wave with one paw. "Say hi, Rupert."
Riley frowns. "Giles got turned into a cat? That guy can't catch a break."
"Oh, no, common misconception," Spike says. "Rupert and human Rupert are different people."
Riley finally lowers his crossbow, though he doesn't unload it. He narrows his eyes suspiciously and asks, "So, what—he's like a familiar or something?"
"Mm, 'familiar' implies he's useful," Spike says.
Rupert meows and stretches his paws up, bopping Spike on the nose.
"He's really just a pet."
"Right." Riley is still watching the pair of them warily. "Are you gonna eat him?"
The thought of it makes Spike feel physically sick.
"Uh, hello? Chip in brain courtesy of your mommy?" Spike presses a finger to the side of his temple. "I can't swat a fly without getting a migraine thanks to you people."
"Yeah, I'd apologize, but that wouldn't make any sense," Riley snarks.
Rupert wriggles out of Spike's grip and climbs back onto his shoulder. Spike says, "Anyway, I thought you were in time-out on account of that spot of treason you did."
"Yeah, well, I got a little tired of living underground," Riley says. "Buffy didn't make it sound like she'd be gone this long."
"So you're what, out looking for her in the cemetery?" Spike asks. "Afraid she's not gonna ring you when she's back in town?"
Riley smiles humorlessly. "I'm patrolling."
"Ah, right." Spike gives Riley a once-over and, for some godforsaken reason he can't explain, offers, "You want some backup? Me and Rupe were just heading to the coffee shop, but I could—"
"No, Spike," Riley cuts in condescendingly. "I don't want backup from a soulless demon who'd be attacking me if he could. Thanks."
It shouldn't sting. Spike's not sure what he was expecting, or why he even offered in the first place.
When he gets this fucking chip out, he's eating Soldier Boy first.
"Fine, suit yourself," Spike sneers dismissively. "I was just hoping I'd get to watch something kill you."
"Yeah." Riley changes his grip on the crossbow. "I bet."
Spike scoffs and turns away, slouching towards the neighborhood and coffee shop beyond. He doesn't need this shit, hands shoved in his pockets folded into fists.
But, "Spike?" Riley calls, and he looks back anyway. Hating himself for wondering.
Riley says, "The others won't kill you because they feel bad that you're harmless. I haven't forgotten what's under the muzzle."
Spike puts a hand to his chest with exaggerated sincerity. "I'm touched, truly."
Riley turns his back first this time.
Spike turns his eyes upward while he walks, tracing what he can see of the stars. There used to be more of them, when he was alive, and Darla said even more than that in her time. Slowly being chased away by the wheel of progress.
His teeth feel very human in his mouth. His ribs rattle hollowly like a cage for one of Dru's dead birds, all gilded play-pretend. Things you don't feed die.
Dogs don't forget how to bite.
Rupert totters precariously, his claws hooking into Spike's jacket, and for a split second Spike thinks about letting him fall—something to justify the empty bile coating his throat.
Rupert meows when Spike scoops him up again, cradling him in both arms with a ferocity that borders on desperation. The pinprick puncture wounds in his shoulder from where Rupert was clinging still sting, but the cat presses the soft velvet of his nose into the hollow of Spike's throat and breathes out a contented whuff of air.
The fur Spike's fingers are buried in is soft, a little coarse. It covers muscle and spine and soft underbelly most of all, and there's something to be said for that, Spike thinks. Something that belongs in a poem written by someone with more talent for it than him.
He thinks about it anyway, the whole time they walk, just in case the answer comes.
~*~
Spike sits on the patio for a long time.
~*~
"Mm, that wasn't even the best one," Anya says, lips still puckered from the lime wedge. They were drinking at the Bronze, but now the Bronze had last call, so they're drinking here. "One of my favorites was in the fourteenth century. This woman wished she could squash her husband like a bug, so I made it so that he shared consciousness with every bug on the planet and he'd feel it every time she killed one. Also, he went insane, like, instantly."
Spike barks out a laugh, gesturing gleefully with his glass. "That's bloody brilliant!"
"Aw, shucks," Anya says, waving him off.
"No, I mean it," Spike tells her seriously. "A lesser demon would've just made him real tiny so she could squish him once, but then it'd be over. I mean, this takes creativity. This is art."
Anya says, "Thank you," and then pouts, flicking her lime wedge off the edge of the counter they're sitting on. "Xander doesn't appreciate my vengeance stories."
Spike snorts. "His loss. Another round?"
"Maybe in a bit," Anya says. She reaches for her water bottle instead and takes a sip. "Oh, hey, Rupert's back."
Spike looks over at the door, which he left propped open so Rupe could come in and out. Sure enough, Rupert's trotting back over to them. He hops up onto Spike's lap and drops a dead rodent into his whiskey.
"Aww, thanks, Rupe." Spike plucks the rat out by the tail and sets it aside, then kisses Rupert on the top of the head. "Daddy's not hungry right now, but he'll eat it later."
Anya, unperturbed, asks, "Does he hunt for you a lot?"
Spike shrugs. "Yeah, I guess."
"That's so cool!" Anya says eagerly. "Do you think he could kill a bunny?"
"Oh, totally," Spike answers with matched enthusiasm. "He's a great hunter. This one time, I swear to God he caught a bird in mid-air."
Anya says, "See, I told Xander we should get a cat for the basement mice, but he said no. And also not to tell anyone about the basement mice, so shh."
Spike mimes zipping his lips. He picks up his whiskey, sniffs it, and dumps it out to pour a fresh glass. "What's with you and bunnies, anyway?"
Anya rarely looks right at Spike when she talks, but she's making a point of staring at the back of the telly now. She folds her hands in her lap and says, "They remind me of being human."
"Oh, yeah," says Spike. He leans his head back against the wall somberly. "That'll do it."
Anya grabs the tequila bottle and drinks straight from it even though it makes her face scrunch.
"Isn't it funny how no one ever misses it?" Spike asks. "Being human. What's that about?"
"Because it's stupid," Anya firmly declares. "Humans have all these rules. Don't lie, except being too honest makes you rude. Look people in the eye but not for too long! Ask people questions but not too many!"
Spike snorts dismissively. "Yeah, stupid. Fuck all that mess."
"But hardly anyone ever wants to stop being human. Have you noticed that?" Anya picks at the edge of the tequila label with a fingernail. "I mean, I don’t regret becoming a vengeance demon, but everyone acts like it's some bad thing."
"They're not like us," Spike tells her. "You and me, we get it—we chose smart."
"Yeah." Anya peels a corner of the label off, then puts the bottle down.
Spike glances at her, taking in the melancholy on her face. "You're making a pretty good second go at it, though. The humanity thing."
She laughs dismissively. "I'm not sure about that."
"Well, you're dating Harris—I mean, I think you could do better—"
"Hey!"
"—but there's no accounting for taste." Spike takes a sip of his drink. "And you've got your Scooby friends."
Anya says, "Sort of, anyway."
Spike hums, letting the quiet settle over them. Rupert is dozing in Spike's lap, his ears flicking lazily.
Tongue loosened by the drink, Spike ventures, "How'd you do it, anyway? Make 'em be friends with you?"
"Oh, that part was an accident," says Anya. "I just didn't have a date to the prom and I wanted a date to the prom so I asked Xander, and then we had sex and now we're dating."
Spike snorts.
"You should try the same thing if you want friends!" Anya suggests, punching him companionably on the arm. "Asking someone to be your friend, not fucking Xander. You can't have Xander."
Spike says, "If I wanted to humiliate myself, I'd sign up for slam poetry night at the coffee shop."
Anya rolls her eyes. "It's not so bad, you big baby."
"No, see, your whole thing worked on Harris 'cause you're—" Spike gestures vaguely at her. "Y'know, hot."
Anya drags her eyes up and down his body and decides, "You're very attractive too."
Spike raises an eyebrow. "We're talking about befriending two lesbians and Harris. I don't think my particular set of dashing good looks will do any good."
"That's a good point," Anya allows. "Because you can't have Xander."
Spike toasts her ironically.
"You forgot about Buffy, though," she points out.
"Yeah, I'll start with getting buddy-buddy with my mortal enemy," Spike says drily. Then leans in a little closer. "D'you think Buffy thinks I'm hot, though? Just between us."
Anya frowns seriously at him, considering the question. Eventually, she takes his face between her hands and says, "You've got really nice cheekbones. People like cheekbones. And you spend a lot of time on your hair."
"Thanks?" says Spike.
Anya hums a 'you're welcome' and goes back to peeling the tequila bottle.
"Not that I care though," Spike says defensively. "I'm gonna kill her as soon as this chip comes out. I don't need her to like me."
"Really?" Anya asks, sounding worryingly surprised. "Because I thought maybe you'd be into the whole 'falling in love with your rival' thing, since it's in like all the romance books you read."
"... Nope," says Spike rigidly.
Anya shrugs. "Suit yourself."
"Yeah," Spike says. "I will."
They sit in silence for an extended beat. Anya peels the tequila label all the way off and sticks it onto Spike's shirt.
Rupert swats at it when it flutters to the ground.
~*~
"I'm not saying I'm not glad we went," Spike is arguing irritably. "I'm saying I think the Bronze does it better."
Xander sighs loudly, nudging open the gate to Giles' apartment building. "And I'm saying you've gotta eat the onion fresh or it's not the same, man—not half an hour later 'cause they wouldn't let us eat there."
Spike sniffs, readjusting his hold on Rupert. "It's discrimination, is what it is. Rupert's money is as good as anyone else's."
"He's a cat," says Xander. "He doesn't have money."
"I thought you were better than this, Harris."
"See, I tried to do a nice thing for you—"
They're interrupted by Giles opening the front door.
"Oh, good," he says tiredly, eyeing Rupert with unadulterated resentment. "You brought that dreadful creature with you."
"Now, now, human Rupert," Spike admonishes. "That's no way to talk about Xander."
Xander's, "Hey!" of protest is honestly a little half-hearted.
Giles doesn't move away from the doorway.
"C'mon, Giles, you're literally the bigger person," Xander says. "Also, I've gotta pee."
"Yeah, Giles," Spike says, flashing a shit-eating grin as he follows Xander's push into the apartment. "Be the bigger Rupert. Gang's all here already, I see."
Besides the Slayer, who Spike is starting to think might never come back.
"Ah, yes, I asked everyone to—" Giles cuts off, eyeing Spike suspiciously. "Why are you?"
Mostly because Xander was his ride and he was bored.
"Heard you were assembling the Slayerettes," Spike says, setting Rupert down on the floor. "Figured that might mean you've got a job for me."
Riley is hunched over a map with both hands braced on the table. He says, "I think we'll manage without you."
Spike shrugs, plopping down into an armchair and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. "I'm already here."
Tara crouches down to pet Rupert, who chirps at her in greeting. "Hi, little buddy."
"Well, loathe as I am to admit it, maybe you have relevant information for us, Spike," Giles says. "We've—well, there's still the issue of Adam to address, and we haven't been able to figure out what he wants."
"Besides being all psycho Frankenstein?" Xander asks, coming back from the bathroom.
"Frankenstein's monster," Willow corrects.
Xander looks at her in confusion. "Yeah, I know he's a monster."
"Hey, human Rupert," Spike asks, "you got any booze left?"
"Fresh out, I'm afraid," Giles says, and takes a sip of his scotch.
Willow asks, "Spike, have you heard anything from the other demons and stuff about Adam?"
"Nothing concrete," says Spike. He glances over to check on Rupert, who's hamming it up for Tara's attention. "Seems like he's evangelising demons for some grand purpose—you know, same old bullshit—but no one really knows the plan unless they’re inner circle."
"We already knew demons were joining together," Giles says testily. "That became obvious after the events at the church."
Spike crosses his arms over his chest. "Well, hey, I'm not exactly everyone's best friend in the demon underground right now, alright? On account of me killing them for you?"
"'For us' is a stretch, wouldn't you say?" Giles asks. He finishes off his glass and pours a fresh one.
"Wait, that's it!" Willow says excitedly.
"It is?" asks Xander.
"Spike could be, like, our double agent!" Willow explains. She turns to him with a glint in her eye. "If you joined up with Adam, you could feed him fake information about us and report back."
"Well, yeah," Spike says skeptically, "but that sounds like a lot of work."
Riley cuts in, "Hey, wait a minute. I'm not sure making the lynchpin in our plan be the guy who's really bummed he can't kill us right now is a great idea."
"Yes, I have to agree with Riley," says Giles. "Showing us the way into a building or killing a demon for hire—these—well, they're much simpler tasks than—than the kind of trust this requires."
Tara timidly ventures, "I—I think he could…"
Xander says, "I mean, how do we know he's not gonna sell us out?"
"I'm right here, you—"
"Come to think of it, how do we know he's not already working with Adam?" Xander continues.
Spike scoffs. "Some use I'd be to him. You people aren't exactly the pinnacle of strategic ingenuity over here. What am I gonna tell him, 'they got nothin', pint of blood, please?'"
"Hey!" Willow says. "My plan was good."
"'Cept for you, Red," Spike allows.
Riley says, "If Buffy were here—"
"Well, she's not," says Willow.
Anya suggests, "Maybe we should just wait for her to get back."
Tara's head is down, her hair falling in her face as she pets Rupert. Spike reaches over and gives Rupe a scratch under the chin, nodding to her when she glances at him and smiles tentatively.
"I'm afraid we shouldn't wait that long," Giles says. "The truth is that Buffy should have been back days ago. I-I'm sure she's fine, but she's done this before and we may need to take matters—"
"We are taking matters!" Willow protests. "I just said Spike should take matters."
Giles says, "And we agreed that suggestion was, ah—"
"I'd do it," Spike offers. "Right price and all."
"We agreed that wasn't the best course of action," Giles continues.
"I think we should vote," says Willow. She glances around the room and says, "All in favor of getting Spike to spy on Adam for us, raise your hands."
Spike, Willow, Tara, and Anya raise their hands.
Xander shoots Anya a displeased look; she shrugs at him unrepentantly.
Riley, incredulous, argues, "Spike shouldn't get a vote!"
"Like hell I shouldn't," Spike retorts. "I've been a member of this little group longer than you have, soldier boy."
"Okay, who said you were in the group?" Xander demands, gesturing in the direction of the bathroom. "We chained you to the bathtub."
"Wait, you did what?" Riley asks.
Anya asks, "Xander, why don't you ever take my side in group votes?"
Rupert jumps up onto the coffee table and sticks his face into Giles' scotch glass.
"Ach! Spike!" Giles snatches the glass out of reach. "Control your wretched cat."
"Aww, Rupeykins," Spike coos. "Are you trying to be more like your namesake? See, human Rupert, someone still looks up to you."
"He's probably just thirsty," Willow says, smiling wryly. "Human Rupert, do you—oh, um… whoops?"
Everyone turns to stare at Giles.
Giles takes off his glasses, inhales deeply as he cleans them on his shirt, and says, "Get out."
Anya asks, "Who—"
"All of you." Giles pinches the bridge of his nose, glasses dangling between two fingers of the same hand. "All of you get out this instant, if you'd be so kind."
"We didn't do anything!" Anya protests.
"Giles," Willow says desperately. "It was an accident! A dumb slip of the tongue! I have a bad tongue! I didn't mean—"
Giles puts his glasses back on. "No, no, it's quite alright. I understand—none of you respect me anymore."
"Uh, since when have you ever cared about us respecting you?" Xander asks.
"You know, that's an excellent point, Xander," Giles says testily. "I'd say around the time you all started treating me like an old fuddy-duddy who has nothing to contribute—"
Willow interjects, "That is so not true!"
"You all do your research without me now," Giles argues. "You spend your time in my apartment eating my food and gossiping about—about boys, you make a mockery of me with an idiotic cat—"
"Xander," Anya tries.
"—and Buffy has completely shirked her training—"
"With all due respect, sir," Riley cuts in. "Lay off. She's not even here to defend herself."
Giles says, "Yes, well, that rather proves my point, doesn't it?"
Willow insists, "Giles, we need you! Xander, tell Giles how much—"
"Oh, I'm sorry, do you need my support now?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Xander," Anya says, "what about our fight?"
Riley asks, "Are we just giving up on the—"
"Hey!" Buffy shouts—at a volume that suggests this isn't the first time she's tried to get everyone's attention.
The arguing screeches to a halt as everyone whips around to look at her—she's standing in the doorway, hair pulled back in a disheveled braid and the faintest hint of a bruise on her jaw, and spectacularly spitting mad.
God, she looks fantastic.
"What the hell is going on here?" she demands, her eyes scanning the room for someone to telepathically incinerate. Spike waves jauntily at her; her nostrils flare. "Because I have had the worst trip, and all I asked you guys to do was hold down the fort, and you couldn't even—"
Rupert, who had been completely impervious to the chaos, hops off the coffee table and walks over to Buffy so he can investigate the newcomer.
Buffy looks down at the cat. The cat begins to gnaw on her shoelace.
"Giles," Buffy asks, verging on hysterical. "When did you get a cat?"
Spike presses a fist to his mouth and suppresses a giggle.
Giles' voice cracks as he begs her, "How dare you?"
"What?" Buffy asks.
Xander turns to Willow and accuses, "You didn't trust me about the Tara thing because I'm not all cool and college-educated like you!"
"What does that even mean?" Willow asks incredulously. "How are you making this about you?"
"You told Buffy and Spike before me!"
"Yeah, and Buffy, like, freaked out!"
Buffy rounds on her, ignoring Giles. "I don't know how many more times I can apologize—"
"That's more than you've done for me," Giles mutters.
"What do I even have to apologize to you for?"
"Don't worry, Buffy, he's just grumpy that the cat has the same name as him."
"That is not what this is about!"
Well, this seems like it'll go on for a while.
Spike looks between Anya and Tara, who are both speechlessly edging towards the front door, and asks, "You birds fancy a cuppa?"
Anya says, "Fuck yes," at the same time Tara emphatically answer, "Please."
Spike scoops up Rupert, disentangling him from Buffy's shoelaces—which she doesn't even seem to notice—and then catches sight of Riley hovering in the corner.
The other four are still yelling at each other in increasingly high-pitched voices.
"Hey, Boy Scout," Spike says. "Wanna get outta here?"
Riley hesitates, sparing one last glance at the scene unfolding around him, and then shrugs in resignation.
No one seems to notice them leaving.
~*~
"Oh, and Italy in the '50s," Spike says fondly, taking another sip of his drink. "Those were some good times. We ate this gondolier in Venice—"
He cuts off, squinting at Willow with concern.
"You haven't touched your cocoa," he says. "Did I make it wrong?"
Willow's eyes widen guiltily. She looks a little green around the gills. "Oh, um, no, the cocoa's great! It's just… do you have any stories about Drusilla that… aren't about gruesome murder?"
Spike thinks about it.
"Not really," he says. Then amends, "Well, some of the sex ones."
"Gruesome murder works!" Willow says brightly.
"No, no, I've talked too much about me," says Spike. He takes another sip of cocoa, slurping up a little marshmallow, and waves at her to go ahead. "What's new with you?"
Willow sighs, gazing glumly into her mug. "Nothing fun. I still haven't made up with Buffy and the others. I'm starting to think maybe we just won't, at this point."
"Hey, don't start with that," says Spike. "You Scoobies are all about the power of friendship and all that. I'll eat my coat if it doesn't work out."
Willow smiles ruefully. "You're just saying that to be nice."
Spike protests, "I'm not nice! Take that back right now."
"Fine," Willow teases. "You're just saying that as—as evil villain reverse psychology."
"That's better." Spike leans back in his chair, wagging a finger at her. "But also wrong. I’m capable of occasional sincerity.”
Willow puffs up her cheeks and sighs dramatically. She takes a dejected sip of her cocoa, raises her eyebrows, then has another.
Spike drums his fingers on the side of his mug. What now?
"Ooh, we should do each other's nails!" Willow says suddenly, her voice brightening with eagerness. "That's the best bonding activity. The bond-iest."
Spike glances down at his severely chipped polish. He's been meaning to re-do them anyway.
"Yeah, alright," he says.
Willow hops out of her chair and goes to sit cross-legged on Spike's bed—another recent crypt acquisition, since Rupert started curling up next to Spike while he slept. He raises an eyebrow at her as he grabs the bottle of nail polish off the shelf.
"It's easier if you can sit across from each other like this," she explains, patting the bed for him to take a seat. "Oh, do you have acetone or anything?"
Spike shrugs. "I usually just paint over top."
"That works. Here, I'll do you first."
Spike gives Willow the bottle. She unscrews the cap, wiping the excess polish off the brush, and then grabs Spike's hand. He tenses on instinct, but she doesn't seem to notice—just splays his fingers out on her knee to get a good angle and does his ring finger first.
Her skin is soft; it tickles. He can't remember the last time someone touched him in a way that wasn't violent.
Spike watches her do the entire first coat in silence. The smell of fresh polish stings his nose, and when she makes a mistake she sticks her tongue out in displeasure and fixes it with the edge of her thumbnail scraping his cuticle.
Maybe it's always violence. Isn't there something in him she wants to kill?
"Me and Buffy used to do this all the time in high school," she says. She lifts his hand and blows on the wet polish, coaxing it to dry faster. "I guess it's not a college thing."
Spike clears his throat. "Why's that?"
Willow starts on the second coat. "It's kinda hokey, isn't it? You're supposed to grow up. Paint your own nails."
"Rot," says Spike.
She smiles faintly.
Spike's nails always unnerve him freshly painted; they remind him that he did them on purpose—that he had to try. He can't decide if it's better or worse like this, when Willow's capping the bottle and making him flap his hands in the air to make sure it sets.
"Uh, I don't have other colors," he tells her, eyeing her lime green sweater. "Sorry."
"That's okay!" she says firmly. "Black is edgy. I can be edgy."
Spike smirks, humoring her. "Alright."
He takes the bottle and her hand, mimicking the way she arranged his hand on her knee. He thinks of Dru, how her hand used to creep up his thigh while he filed her nails into pretty claws.
Willow's hand stays politely where it is. There's nothing sexual in this act, which is almost as strange as the lack of violence. He barely considers the bloodlust tickling the back of his throat.
"Used to do this for Dru," he says eventually, a sentence that makes him feel small and far away. "She liked those—what'd you call 'em? The French kind."
"Aww, really?" Willow asks. "That's sweet."
Spike nods. He finishes up the first hand and gently lays it back on the bed. "I did her makeup, too—every day. Sometimes Darla's, once Angelus left."
Willow gives him her other hand. "How come?"
"No mirrors, remember?" Spike smirks. "You try getting it all done the way you like without looking once."
"I don't even get it the way I like it with a mirror half the time," Willow says half-jokingly.
Spike wipes away a smudge on her index finger. The words come easier now that they've started, even with the ache surging in his chest. It's not that no one knew them, really—but Darla's dead and Angel's as good as and Dru's somewhere Spike can't reach, and it's different to hand them to someone who wasn't there.
He says, "Darla liked it all just so, you know—she followed all the trends and spent hours teaching us."
They practiced on dead girls, so she could approve the work. Spike spares Willow this detail.
"I never had the patience for all that, the way she wanted it all particular," he does say. He goes back to Willow's other hand for the second coat. "All proper. But Dru—she liked when I made it fun." He smiles wistfully. "Said it was prettier that way."
Willow smiles at him encouragingly. "Aww, see? You did have a not-murdery Drusilla story."
"Yeah," Spike says, glancing up at her. "I guess I did. Thanks."
~*~
Spike's on his way to Giles against his better judgement, probably, Rupert in tow out of habit. He shouldn't even offer this deal, and not like this, except maybe he's just got a point to prove.
It's a warm night, even for California. Giles has the windows open, which is why Spike can hear the voices carrying from here.
"Giles," Willow is saying tearfully, "of course you're still important to me—to all of us! That's why I was so worried—"
"Willow, you listen to me," Giles tells her, his voice gone soft and fierce with emotion. Spike creeps closer and catches sight of them standing on the near side of the kitchen alcove, Giles's glasses held in one hand. "There is nothing you could do to lose my affection. You, Buffy, the others—I think of you as—well, as rather like my children. And even if—if I disapprove, which isn't the case here, that would never change."
They hug, tears streaming down Willow's face. It's all very touching.
Something feels sour in Spike's stomach. The jealousy curdles in him, the resentment leaving a film on his tongue.
There are no moments like this for him. The fighting, sure, the bantering, the bloody slugfests in the dirt and occasionally a Thanksgiving dinner as long as the rope is leaving marks on his wrists, but not this. None of them are like him. None of them want what he really is.
If he were to try—if they knew why he really wanted Angelus' approval so badly, what it felt like to share everything they did—he wouldn't be some sweet, palatable lesbian coed. And if they knew William… weak, soft, poetry-loving William? Desperate to be liked, desperate to make something that would outlive him. He outlived himself and a mother who never really loved him, and these things, too, don't belong inside that house.
Spike turns away and heads for the gate.
Buffy is coming down the stairs. She does a double-take when he brushes past her and asks, "Spike? What're you doing here?"
Spike clears his throat, steadying his voice before he embarrasses himself. "Oh, well—was gonna talk to Giles about some information I've got, but all that touchy-feely in there doesn't agree with my stomach."
Buffy makes a face at him and approaches the window, where Giles and Willow can still be seen hugging.
"Oh, yeah," she says distantly, her face carefully neutral. "Wouldn't wanna interrupt that."
She makes no move to go inside.
"Uh… I know I wouldn't," Spike says. "But that's your deal, innit? Holding hands and the power of friendship and all that."
Buffy says, "Not lately," and turns back the way she came.
Spike follows her out of necessity, fully convinced he's gonna regret whatever comes next. He nudges the gate open with his hip, both hands occupied with a docile Rupert, and asks, "Why not?"
Buffy glances sideways at him like he's an idiot.
"I mean, what's wrong?" Spike tries again. "Do you wanna talk about it?"
Buffy says, "Not with you," but when Spike turns right down the street she does too, and he's not sure what else to do about that.
"... Wanna hold the cat?" he offers. "That usually helps."
She eyes Rupert suspiciously for a long moment, then holds out her arms.
Spike hands him over carefully, shushing him when he meows in confusion. Buffy's fingers brush against his arms and his eyes snap to hers at the spark where their skin touches—confused, wondering, but she doesn't seem to notice.
"Hi there," she tells Rupert, talking in a cutesy voice. "Gosh, you're a cute lil chunky monkey, huh?"
Spike's not sure what to do with his hands anymore. He shoves them in his pockets and keeps walking.
There's a bench next to a lampost and a payphone nearby; Buffy walks over to it and sits down. She's still holding Rupert, so Spike sits down too, and she doesn't tell him to sod off.
God, part of him wishes she'd just tell him to sod off.
Rupert wriggles around, meowing brightly, and starts rubbing his head against the side of Buffy's jaw.
"He likes you," Spike tells her. Then smiles wryly. "I mean, he likes everyone, 'cause he's a slut, but he doesn't do that face-rubby thing to most people."
Buffy cards her fingers through Rupert's fur thoughtfully, leaning her cheek into his affection.
"Anything I say to you, you're just gonna use it against me later," she says eventually.
Spike leans back against the bench. "Well, I would, but I figure it'll be a while before I can find a way to get this chip out, and this'll all be old news by then."
Buffy shrugs in a way that suggests that, for some reason, that's good enough for her. Her hair is down today, softly curled, and she's wearing that peach lipstick that glitters in the light.
"I know I messed up with Willow," she says, watching the people go by around them. "I wanna make it up to her, be a better friend. But the rest of it, I just—" she laughs sadly. "I'm so tired of it, from all of them."
Spike folds his legs cross-legged, draping his wrists over his knees, and inclines his head for her to continue.
"I'm used to protecting them. I get it—I'm the Slayer, that's the deal." Buffy nods to herself, a parody of determination. "But when you're bet—stronger than everyone, when you can do things they can't… they can't handle it. I feel like I'm constantly managing their emotions, you know? Making sure Xander feels like a man, making sure Giles feels important."
Which suggests that Spike missed the juiciest part of the fight after he left.
"I'm the one who always has to fight. I'm the end of the line." Buffy glances at him. "Adam would tear them apart. I'm not even sure I can beat him. But if I say that they can't help this time, suddenly I'm acting like I'm better than them."
Spike blinks with surprise. "You are better."
Buffy flinches away in protest. "No," she argues. "I'm not— that's not what I'm saying."
"You're stronger, you're quicker, you're cleverer in a fight," says Spike. "You're righteous as hell, which is bloody fucking annoying, but your lot cares about that sort of thing."
Buffy's hold on Rupert tightens; he keeps purring, unaffected. "That doesn't make me better."
"Uh, yeah, it does. And it's on purpose." Spike raises his eyebrows at her. "They need you that way."
"'They?'" Buffy repeats.
"Giles every time he sends you into a fight, that insufferable council you quit—whatever Powers That Be that made Slayers in the first place," Spike tells her. "They need you to be better than them. It's 'one girl in all the world,' innit?"
"I don't want any of that. I don't wanna be the girl." Buffy blinks rapidly, glancing up at the darkening sky. "I just wanna be a girl."
Spike scoffs dismissively. "No, you don't. No one who's got power really wants to give it up."
Buffy says, "Angel wants to be human."
"Angel hates himself," Spike counters sardonically. "He's always had a complex about it, even when we were evil."
Buffy snorts into Rupert's fur. She pets him thoughtfully, long and gentle strokes down his back, and admits, "Fine. I like being powerful. I like being able to kick your ass, and I like being special."
Spike smiles, briefly.
"But it's so fucking lonely," Buffy says, her voice raw like she tried to swallow it down. She's staring into the middle distance, her eyes a little wet, like she's sad to watch the sun go down—like she doesn't know that in the fading light the streetlamps turn her all glowing. "It's like there's this part of me that none of them can touch… and it's still lonely even when I'm not."
Spike can't look at her anymore. He turns his head to watch the people in their little houses across the street. "Yeah, I know something about that."
Buffy says drily, "I thought you and Drusilla had 'forever love' where you were made for each other and all that crap."
"'Crap?'" Spike echoes with amusement. "Whatever happened to you and Angel? I gave you that whole speech."
"Yeah, well, one day it's forever," Buffy says flatly, "the next he's telling you to get out of his fucking city."
Christ, Angel really is an idiot.
"Does your boy scout know you crazy kids aren't gonna make it?" Spike asks.
"I didn't say love is all crap," Buffy answers defensively. She pouts down at Rupert, who's settled in her lap and started to purr. "I just don't need it to be all drama and fireworks anymore. I want normal love. The nice, boring, dependable kind."
"Rot," says Spike.
"Huh?"
"Bullshit."
Buffy says, "Like you're one to talk. What do you call that thing with Harmony of all people?"
"Not love," Spike says.
She rolls her eyes and says nothing.
Spike looks down at his hands—he's got a couple rings on; he's kept his nail polish nice. He fights the urge to chip away at it now.
"But they make you better," he says in the quiet. "Your friends."
"Yeah," she agrees softly. "They do."
Spike rubs his thumb over the sleek gloss of his nails.
"I don't know how to explain to them that it's enough," Buffy says.
"Is it?" Spike asks.
"It's gotta be," she says.
Spike lets himself look at her—really look. The bruise on her jaw is gone; she's wearing a cross, weighing heavy between her collarbones and kissing the swell of her breasts. And beyond that—the way she doesn't carry herself like a predator, the way plenty of things want to kill her including the one sitting next to her, but she doesn't scan her surroundings like she's worried she'll be the prey.
Like she knows she's too good at having a body; like it's beneath her concern.
Spike doesn't know why they bother looking at her and feeling inferior. Who would want to be this good?
He bloody hates her, of course. He has to, very carefully, the way he's very carefully making himself everything else and as unavoidably as he aches for Dru and wants to give a sodding street cat a pretty life. Because he gets no say in feeling something except for what he calls it.
Buffy plays with Rupert's ears, gently touching one between her thumb and forefinger, and then smiles to himself when she bops him softly on the nose and he yawns.
Spike wonders what she's thinking about—her friends, probably, or how she's going to stop Adam. He should probably tell her what he found out, but it feels like it'd ruin the moment.
"Spike?" Buffy asks suddenly, startling him so bad he has to hide a jump behind smoothing out his hair.
He hums in nonchalant response, hands behind the back of his head.
Buffy frowns innocently and asks, "What's with the cat?"
~*~
"I named him after Giles, you know. Can you see the resemblance?"
The Slayer laughs so hard she snorts like a pig.
~*~
Spike is laying awake and very still, staring at the ceiling like it's gonna collapse on him, which would be a fucking gift.
Slowly, Rupert reaches out a paw and bats Spike on the face.
"Not now, baby," Spike tells him. "Daddy's having a crisis."
~*~
By the evening, Spike's feeling better about it. And by 'it,' he means the denial, which he's decided will be critical to his well-being in the immediate future.
He sits up and stretches, cracking his back luxuriously, and hops to his feet.
"Rupert," he calls, glancing around the crypt. "Time for brekkie!"
He taps his fingernails on the side of the can, which is normally enough to bring Rupert running—but there's no sight nor sound of him.
Spike frowns, setting the can back down. Nothing looks disturbed, which means Rupert probably snuck out however he manages to come and go. He probably just got distracted on the way home, or is off hunting or something.
Spike shrugs to himself and, using his newly-bolstered skills of repression, decides not to worry about it. He makes sure there's plenty of dry food and fresh water left out, and leaves the door cracked when he leaves to meet Anya at the Bronze later that night.
~*~
When Spike gets home early that morning, there's still no sign of Rupert and the food and water both look untouched—he can smell Rupe all over the crypt, like always, but nothing feels fresh.
It's probably fine. The idiot just got lost is all, or he found some lady cat he's shacking up with for a while, or he got eaten by rabid dogs or run over by a car or kidnapped by the Initiative or eaten by some cat-eating demon or—
Spike turns on his heels and walks right back out the door.
"Rupert?" he shouts, cupping his hands over his mouth and making kissy noises. "C'mere, boy! Here, kitty-kitty!"
He strains his ears and hears plenty of rustling—possums, raccoons and the like, mostly—but no Rupert. Like his crypt, there's plenty of scent, but nothing he can pick out as recent. Tracking a human would be easier.
Spike's not gonna give up, though. He wanders the graveyard the rest of the night, calling Rupert's name and listening in vain for any response.
He's driven back to his crypt by the sunrise, but not to sleep. He grabs his blanket and heads down into the sewers to keep searching from there—there's no trace so far, but it's better than sitting on his arse.
He's just gotta keep looking. He's just gotta think. Nothing was trashed in the crypt, nothing else was taken. No smell of Rupert's blood, thank God, so it's not likely another animal got him.
If he got lost, wouldn't he hear Spike calling and run home? Wouldn't he want to come home?
Spike's nostrils flare. He's not gonna fucking cry. It's fucking pathetic and it won't help. Who would want to take Rupert? Who would hate Spike enough to—
He takes a left at the next tunnel.
~*~
Spike's blanket is starting to smoke by the time he makes it through the gate and charges down the steps, the bubbling under his skin turning every inch of muscle into taut wire.
Giles is in the courtyard, training sword-fighting with the Slayer. She's got one hand literally tied behind her back and a blindfold over her eyes, and Giles is still on the defensive.
Spike slams him into the nearest wall.
The chip goes off immediately—like a knitting needle to the base of Spike's skull—and there's barely enough shade from the awning to keep him from bursting into flames. He fights through it, baring his teeth in agony, and shouts, "What did you do with him?"
Giles stammers, "What—wh-who did I—?"
Buffy hauls Spike off by the back of his duster and pins him to the wall. Her blindfold is down around her neck and she's freed both her hands, one of which is gripping Spike by the throat.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hisses.
Spike struggles against her hold, lunging for Giles. "Don't play cute, Slayer—I know he took him!"
"What could you possibly be talking about?" Giles demands, standing in direct sunlight and rubbing the back of his head.
"Rupert!" Spike growls at the Slayer; she tightens her grip. "He's missing and you always fucking hated him—"
"You think I kidnapped your cat?" Giles asks incredulously. He laughs, tilting his head up to the sky. "Yes, we have a psychotic, nigh-unstoppable cyborg roaming the streets, but my primary concern is your cat."
Spike gives up on getting away from Buffy—no way to do it without activating the chip, and he can still see stars from the last time. He goes slack against the wall, but his voice stays harsh.
"Someone took him. Why shouldn't I think it's you?" he asks.
"Someone took him?" Buffy repeats. She narrows her eyes at him. "How do you know?"
Spike glances at her desperately. "'Cause he hasn't been home, alright? He always comes home."
Buffy's expression changes slightly—goes softer around the eyes, maybe. She says, "You're serious."
"You didn't try to eat him, perchance?" Giles asks airily.
"No," Spike snaps. "Why does everyone keep asking me that like I'd—like I'm fucking capable of—"
He cuts off.
They both stare at him, the unspoken ending lingering in the air.
"Just tell me if you have him," Spike says. Helplessly, begging. "I'll change his name, never bring him round again, I don't care."
Buffy takes her hand off his throat.
"No, Spike," Giles says tiredly. "I don't have your cat."
Spike squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get himself under control. If Rupert's not here—
"How long's he been missing?" Buffy asks quietly.
Swallowing hurts Spike's throat. He says, "Since last—no, the night before last."
Buffy frowns. "Sometimes cats just go off for a while, don't they? I mean, isn't he an outdoor cat?"
"He missed dinner," Spike argues. "And I looked all around the graveyard. He always comes when I call him."
"Buffy, I'm not sure this is our, ah, priority right now," Giles chimes in, the prat.
Buffy glances at him and says, "You're right." She turns back to Spike. "You should put up posters for him or something. Maybe call Willow—she can help you make them. She's good at that stuff."
Spike blinks at her, recollecting himself. He says, "Uh, but—"
"Use Giles' phone," Buffy tells him, rolling her eyes. "And stop running around with this stupid blanket before you traumatize some poor family by going all ash-y in front of them."
Spike would quip at her, under normal circumstances. He'd do a lot of things about a lot of things, under normal circumstances.
Buffy picks up her discarded sword and aims it at Giles in challenge.
Spike takes that as his cue to slink inside, using the blanket to shield himself from the sun while he fumbles with the door. He rests his head against it once it's shut behind him, listening to the sound of metal hitting metal outside.
His skin still burns where Buffy touched him. It burns all over, but especially there.
Spike pushes away from the door and goes to the phone, where Giles' address book is laid out. He finds the number for Tara's dorm and tries there first.
~*~
Between the three of them, Spike, Tara, and Willow get posters hung up over all of Sunnydale within a three mile radius of the graveyard. Spike spends two more days clawing out of his own skin with anxiety, and then Buffy shows up at his door shortly after sundown.
Spike's been half-heartedly watching the telly all day. He looks over with his heart leaping into his throat when she walks in. "Slayer? Is there—"
"Someone called," she says. "He's fine, Spike. But—"
"Well, let's go, then!" Spike says, springing to his feet. He grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and throws it on. "Where is he?"
"It's not that simple."
"Of course it is!" Spike argues incredulously. "Just tell me where—"
Buffy says, "Spike," like she's handling a wounded animal.
She's never said his name like that before.
Spike turns to look at her fully, one arm only halfway into his sleeve. Her face is carefully blank; not even the courtesy of a chipper valley girl facade.
He says, "Right. Let's have it, then. No sugar coating, Slayer."
"He's got a family, Spike," Buffy says, no nonsense. She'd almost look sorry, if he didn't know better. "They said they'd been looking for him for weeks, and he finally showed up a few days ago."
Spike's arm hangs limp at his side. "What?"
"They live half a block from here," Buffy tells him. "I guess he used to get out a lot and one day he stopped coming home. Sound familiar?"
"No, that's—" Spike clenches his jaw, laughing through his teeth. "He's—I never kept him here. He could've gone back if he wanted but he didn't, Slayer, he stayed with me."
Buffy shakes her head helplessly. "Well, they found him the other day and they're not letting him out anymore, so, um… there's nothing really we can do to get him back. I'm sorry."
Spike takes his coat back off and throws it across the room. It thumps against the bookshelf. His hands scrub over his face.
"They did say you could come look," she says. "To make sure it's the same cat."
"Where is he?" Spike grits out.
"Can you handle it?" Buffy accuses.
Spike snarls at her, fangs flashing inches from her face.
She doesn't flinch. Her eyes glint like steel.
Spike's vamp face slips away as quickly as it came.
"That's why you're the one who came to break the news," he realizes—then laughs darkly, turning away. "You don't give a rat's arse about Rupert, but you don't trust your little witch friends to wrangle the Big Bad, is that it?"
"Something like that," she answers evenly.
Spike's gaze falls on one of Rupert's toys—a crudely stitched stuffed mouse. He ripped one of the ears off almost immediately and Spike sewed it back on so the stuffing wouldn't leak all over the floor and because it was Rupert's favorite, fucking hell.
You can take what you want, have what you want, Angelus said. But nothing is yours.
Spike rolls his shoulders back and says, "I can handle it."
"... Okay," Buffy tells him. "Let's go."
~*~
It's a sickeningly normal house on the outside. A Barbie dream car in the front yard and rose bushes valiantly clinging to life. The curtains, respectably drawn and partially translucent when lit up by the lights inside, are floral print.
"Behave," Buffy warns, and folds her hands behind her back in a parody of cheerleader pep after ringing the doorbell.
A man with graying temples answers the door, looking at them with benign confusion. They probably make quite the pair, Spike thinks, him in black leather duster and red shirt and platinum blonde and her in a cute little mini skirt and halter top like she waltzed off the set of a teen romcom.
"Um," says the man, "hello? How can I help you?"
By giving Spike his fucking cat back—but before he can say as much, Buffy answers with a smile, "Hi, I'm Buffy. I think I talked to your wife on the phone? We're the, um… cat people."
Spike glares at her; she shoots him a look that translates roughly to, I swear to God I will stake you if you say one word out of line, and then looks back pleasantly at the man holding the door.
"Oh, of course, sorry," the man says. He steps away from the doorway and leaves the door open in a clear invitation to come inside.
If you're a human.
Buffy hops over the threshold with a skip in her step that Spike can only describe as intentionally vindictive.
Spike reaches out, lips pursed skeptically, and hits the mystical barrier intact. He scowls, briefly, and then brightens his voice to politely ask, "Sorry, you don't mind if we come in, do you?"
The man looks over his shoulder, taking in the sight of Buffy already standing in his home and Spike loitering awkwardly on the porch, and says, "... Be my guest?"
Spike sighs with relief and walks inside.
"The cat's probably upstairs with our daughter," the man explains, then raises his voice. "Caitlin, will you come down here?"
"We're having a tea party!" answers a childlike voice from upstairs.
"Now, please!" The man turns back to Buffy and Spike, gesturing for them to follow him through the foyer and into the living room. "Honey, the cat people are here."
A woman emerges from what Spike assumes is the kitchen—he can smell something cooking, and she's wearing an apron splattered with tomato sauce.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm a mess," she says, wiping her hands on the apron before offering one to Buffy to shake. "You caught me in the middle of dinner."
"Sorry, we're a little late," Buffy says.
"Oh, not at all," the woman says, waving her off. "I'm Judy, by the way."
"Oh, I'm Buffy, and this is—" Buffy glances at Spike, scrunches up her face in micro-dosed displeasure, and then turns back to Judy. "You've got a lovely home."
Judy says, "Thank you, Buffy, that's sweet. Can I get you something to drink?"
Buffy follows her into the kitchen. "Oh, just water, thanks."
"And for your boyfriend?" Judy asks.
Spike feels the visceral urge to chew off his own hand.
"Oh, my God, he's not—" Buffy splutters. "Um, he's—just a— well , I mean… diet Coke?"
Judy's husband says, "Where is that girl?" then shouts, "Caitlin, now!"
Spike's pretty sure he's the only one who can hear the long-suffering sigh from upstairs.
Buffy emerges from the kitchen holding a soda can, which she shoves into Spike's ribs with a pleasant smile.
"I hate diet Coke," Spike mutters.
"Good!" she says cheerfully.
Spike pops the can open and takes a belligerent drink.
There's the sound of uneven, dragging footsteps coming down the stairs, which is explained when a little girl, no more than three or four, emerges holding a squirming cat in her arms that's nearly as big as she is.
Spike's chest tightens; it's Rupert.
"Caity, remember how we said some nice people took care of Mister Marmalade when he was lost?" the dad says. "They came to visit him."
Rupert wriggles away from the little girl and starts meowing his head off, winding around Spike's feet and rubbing against him.
Spike sinks to his knees, dropping back on his haunches, and buries his hands in Rupert's fur—checking for injuries, anything wrong, but there's nothing. It's just Rupert.
"You're Mister Marmalade's other family?" the girl asks him.
Spike glances at her. "Uh, yeah."
She wrinkles her nose. "You made him fat."
"Well, yeah," says Spike. "He likes being fat."
Rupert says, "Meow!" and bites Spike on the ear.
"We were having a tea party," Caitlin explains. "Mister Marmalade isn't good at followin' ett-uh-cut, though."
"He gets that from me," Spike says inanely. He scratches Rupert's favorite spot on the side of his cheek, below the ear. Rupert starts to purr. "How much do you want for him?"
"Spike," Buffy hisses.
The man says, "I'm sorry?"
"He's just kidding," Buffy says, forcing a laugh. "Aren't you, honey?"
"No, dead serious," Spike says, ignoring her. "I want him back. I'll pay you pretty much anything—hell, I'll do anything."
There's a heavy silence. Caitlin is staring at him with wide eyes; her parents glance at each other uncomfortably.
"I'm sorry if we gave you the wrong idea," the husband says eventually. "We're really grateful you took care of Marmalade, but he's not, uh… for sale. Caity loves him."
"Well, she'll get over it," Spike says irritably.
"Excuse me?" the man asks in shock.
Spike gestures at the girl, his other arm curled protectively around Rupert. "She's young, they bounce back from this shit. Hell, just get another ginger one and she won't tell the difference."
"That's enough," Buffy snaps. "We're going."
She grabs Spike bruisingly by the upper arm and hauls him to his feet. Rupert meows in complaint, toppling off Spike's lap, and blinks up at him as he's dragged away.
"I'm not leaving without him," Spike says, tugging out of her grip. "You can't—"
Buffy grabs him again, this time at the elbow. There's a deceptive softness to it, which is worse, and isn't matched by the sharpness of her gaze.
"Yes," she says firmly, "you are."
Spike feels the desperation surging in him. He might not be able to hurt these people, but he could wreck their pretty house. Torch those sensible curtains, smash the fancy telly where they probably all gather to watch the nightly news after a long day of being good and normal and good.
"Meow," Rupert says, blinking up at him.
Spike swallows the lump in his throat. He looks at the little girl, with her little hands buried in Rupert's fur, and says, "Let him stay fat."
She's terrified of him, of course. She says, "Okay."
Buffy says, "Let's go," and leads him to the door.
They have to walk half a block before Spike can't hear Rupert crying after them anymore. He wrenches free of her with a snarl, running his hands through his hair and fucking up the gel.
"What the fucking hell was that?" he snaps at her, gesturing the way they came. "Why did you—"
"Oh, please, Spike." Buffy laughs dismissively. "Did you seriously think I was gonna let you steal a cat from a little girl? What's wrong with you?"
Spike says, "I'm not stealing him because he's my bloody cat!"
"He's not yours, Spike," Buffy says. "He belongs to that family. I told you that before we came."
Nothing is yours.
"But—" Spike scrubs restlessly at his cheek and, God, he hates that it's her. He hates that it has to be her. "I—I loved him."
Buffy laughs again, meanly. She never laughs meanly at anyone else. "You're a vampire. You'll get over it."
His chest aches. His eyes sting with furious unshed tears, because he gets to decide what to call them.
"You don't get it," he says. Glances up at the closest stars before turning to her again. "That cat—he's the only thing that really loved me. That didn't treat me like a monster. He was dumber than a sack of hammers and loud and bloody inconvenient and piss poor at pretty much everything, but he loved me."
Buffy stares at him, speechless with some unknowable emotion blooming across her face. Her lips are berry-pink and she's wearing too much eyeliner.
"And he's the only reason any of you even tolerate me," Spike adds bitterly. He shoves his hands into his pockets with a quiet scoff. "You think I don't know that? Not one of you would give me the time of day except to insult me before Rupert showed up—"
He processes what he's said.
"So, on second thought," he blusters, avoiding her face, "at least I'll get some bloody peace and quiet again."
It's quiet now.
"Wow," says Buffy. "You really are so fucking stupid. I mean, just the dumbest. How was I ever worried you actually might kill me?"
Spike whips around in irritation, putting his hands up. "You know, Slayer, kicking a man while he's down is pretty low, even for you."
Buffy rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. There's a hint of… something, on her lips. Amusement? Pity? It unsettles him.
"People are being nicer to you because you're not threatening to kill them anymore, Spike," she says. "So here's an idea—maybe try not being such a dick? See where it gets ya."
With that, she turns and walks in the opposite direction of his crypt.
Spike watches her go, chunky heels clicking against the pavement. Her hair catches briefly in one last street light and then she's gone.
He could go back for the cat; the family already invited him in. He could take Rupert from them easy, no need to lay a chip-activating finger on any of them.
He wonders what she'd do to him if he did.
Spike turns homewards instead, over the fence separating him from the graveyard, his face watching his own feet drag through the dirt. There's no more fight left.
~*~
Spike comes home from the grocery store a few days later, setting his bags glumly on the counter. There's a dull ache to everything he does now, especially in the crypt—walking in, turning to the phantom sound of Rupert's voice on instinct. Remembering there's nothing there.
His foot accidentally nudges a jingle ball; it rolls under the armchair.
It's so, so quiet after that. He hadn't realized how unused to the quiet he'd become.
Spike snaps. He dumps a paper bag out onto the counter and starts scooping every toy he can find into it instead—lifting up the furniture, checking behind the statues and under the pillows. The food is next—he sweeps all the cans off the shelf with his arm, curling his lip when they all clatter together when they tumble into the bag, and then grabs the half-empty bag of dry food in his other hand.
He leaves the bowls where they are and the door open, just in case.
~*~
Tara's already in her pajamas when Spike shows up at her dorm—that, or she had nowhere to be today. He's got no idea if it's the weekend.
"Oh, Spike," she says, surprised but not concerned. She glances at the bags in his arms. "Is—is everything okay? Willow's at Giles if you're looking for her."
"Not in particular," Spike says. "I just, uh—you heard about Rupert?"
Tara's expression softens. "Um, yeah, I did—I'm really sorry. I came by yesterday, actually, to see if you wanted to talk? But I couldn't find you."
"Been going out a lot," Spike says. "Keeping busy."
"That makes sense," she says, then looks around the room. "Um, you can come in, if you want? It's—it's really messy though."
Spike steps inside, taking a quick look around. There's clothing everywhere, including two very different sized bras that Tara quickly stuffs into a drawer. "Doesn't bother me. I won't be long, though, I just thought—"
He hesitates. A black and white kitten, who must've been perched somewhere high, leaps onto the bed and then bounces clean off it, landing on the floor in a flurry of limbs before scurrying under a wardrobe.
Tara laughs, a hand over her mouth like she's trying to contain it; her hair falls in her face like a curtain.
"Sorry," she tells Spike. "She gets like this. Willow calls it the 'zoomies.'"
Spike smiles despite himself. "I get it. Uh, this stuff is for her, actually." He gestures with the bags. "Or, for you and Red, for her. I just thought, uh, it was taking up all this space and it's not like I need it anymore, so…"
Tara's smile is uncomfortably knowing—bittersweet around the edges. "It's hard to have it all reminding you, huh?"
Strangely, it makes Spike feel lighter. "Well, yeah. That's it."
"I'm sure Kitty Fantastico will love it. Thanks so much," Tara says kindly, taking the bag of toys first. She perks inside it. "Um, are you sure you don't wanna keep something, though? Sometimes it helps."
Spike hums sharply in the negative.
"Just think about it." Tara dumps the entire bag on the floor, which is mostly covered in more clothes and books. The cat darts out from under her hiding place and pounces on a jingle ball. "If you ever change your mind, you could always come back."
"Uh, thanks." Spike steps gingerly over what looks like an open container of Chips Ahoy and sets the dry food down next to an unopened bag of the same brand in the corner.
Tara picks up one of the dangly toys and sits down in the bed, wiggling it across the floor to get Kitty Fantastico's attention.
Her hair is pulled back in a series of haphazard little braids with different colored butterfly clips holding them in place. She's wearing a tie-dye shirt and UC Sunnydale sweatpants.
She looks so young. Spike will survive her and all her friends and not have had half as much life.
"Well," he says, rubbing his hands together to have something to do with them. "That's that. Be seeing you if anything needs a good killing."
"Oh, um, alright." Tara looks at him, biting her lip with hesitation. He can feel her eyes on his as he picks his way back across the room. "Um, I just wanted to say… I know it's not the same, but if you're ever missing Rupert, y-you can come play with Miss Kitty Fantastico. She's really friendly. I'm sure she'd lo-love you."
Spike stops short; his boot crunches down on plastic. He blinks at her, waiting for the punchline, but she just looks embarrassed.
"Yeah, okay," Spike says wondrously. "... Thanks."
Tara smiles nervously and tucks a braid behind her ear.
Spike lingers, on the verge of something he can't quite name for the wanting of it. She doesn't seem bothered, exactly, but she doesn't keep looking at him either.
"Out of everyone," Spike says, the realization forming on his tongue, "you're the only one who's never brought it up."
Tara turns to him questioningly. "Brought… what up?"
"Y'know. What I am," Spike says. "A vampire. A demon. Grr?"
"Oh." Tara glances down, picking nervously at a cuticle. "Um, well, Anya used to be a demon, and besides, I-I think…" she glances up earnestly. "Maybe being a demon doesn't have to make you bad, right? You can still try to be g-good."
Spike opens his mouth once, but no words come out. He purses his lips and tries again. "I guess."
Tara scoops Miss Kitty Fantastico up into her lap.
Spike heads for the door, baffled and destabilized, probably tracking cookie crumbs across the floor. He catches himself in the doorway, a hand braced on the painted cinderblock, and presses his thumb into the grit.
"Tara," he says, turning around slowly, feeling a jagged edge where a heart would be in his throat. "... Do you wanna be friends?"
"Oh!" Tara recoils like he's gone vamp on her and stutters, "U-um, I—well, it's—"
Spike's face burns.
"Forget it," he scoffs. "Don’t—"
"N-no!" Tara interrupts. "Or, um, I mean… you mean it?"
Oh. Spike glances at her, the way she's hunched over on the bed, her cheeks pink with blood, and it's like something twisting a rib.
"People used to do that to me, too," he says. "Act all chummy so they could make fun of you. Sorry bunch of losers is what they were."
A smile flutters across Tara's lips. She says, "Um, I've been majorly procrastinating on studying all day, but I heard there's a lot of good movies playing. If—if you wanted to go tomorrow?"
"Uh, yeah," Spike says. "Sure. That'd be… cool."
"Do you wanna meet here at sunset?" she offers.
"Sounds good." Spike shoves his hands in his pockets, going for nonchalant. "I'll… see you then?"
Tara nods happily. Kitty Fantastico reaches up and tries to bat at one of her braids and she giggles, scooping the tiny cat up in both hands. "S-sorry, she's—"
"No, it's alright," Spike tells her. "Have fun."
He slips out into the hallway and closes the door behind himself, letting the melancholy settle over him again. His arms feel empty without Rupert's things in them; the crypt will be empty when he goes home.
At least he's got something to look forward to tomorrow now.
~*~
Spike is on his way home from movie night, which somehow transitioned from "seeing a movie with Tara" to "fifth-wheeling on a double date with Tara, Willow, Xander, and Anya," and wasn't so bad except for the part where Anya upended the bucket of butter-drenched popcorn into Spike's lap in her quest to crawl directly into Xander's mouth.
There are some unfortunate stains on his best pair of jeans. Luckily, he can guilt Harris into using his washing machine.
Spike nudges open his door, which he left ajar, and then stops short when he catches sight of a familiar pair of dirt-covered boots kicked up on his coffee table.
"This place is, like, weirdly furnished lately," Buffy says without turning around. "What's up with that?"
Spike pulls the door shut behind him. "I've been collecting. You won't believe the stuff people throw out around here."
"Don't I know it," Buffy says. She cranes her head to look at him, then scrunches up her face judgmentally when she sees his butter-soaked crotch.
Spike, panicking, says, "Uh, it was Anya."
Buffy's distasteful frown deepens.
"Popcorn?" says Spike. Christ, stake him now. "Anya spilled popcorn. Not—"
"Oh," Buffy says. Her face twitches, then goes weirdly blank. "You were at the movies?"
"Uh, yeah." Spike shrugs his coat off and tosses it onto the recliner. He opens the mini fridge and takes out a deli container of blood. "It was the five of us, actually. Figured you were off with the boy toy."
Buffy says, "I was," and then, "Well, you're clearly busy, so I'll just go."
"What?" Spike laughs, popping open the container and gesturing with it. "You can't tell me you're getting squeamish, Slayer."
"I'm not," she says defensively. "I just… got stuff to do. Slayer stuff. Bye!"
Spike puts the container down on top of the fridge and moves to block the door. "Uh, hold on, now. You're not gonna tell me what you were doing in my house? Taking in the decor, were you?"
"You know me, I'm a sucker for a musty crypt full of dead people," Buffy answers with aggressive cheerfulness, and quite easily pushes him out of the way. "See ya."
"Slayer," says Spike.
Buffy sighs dramatically, leaning her head all the way back to roll her eyes at the ceiling, and then turns to face him with her hand still on the door.
"I thought I'd invite you patrolling," she says, "but obviously you've had a really busy night, so it's really whatever. Can I go now?"
"Why?" Spike asks, blinking.
Buffy stares at him. "Because I don't wanna be here."
"No," Spike says, feeling the heat creep up the back of his neck. "Why would you invite me? I mean, you don't even like me."
What Spike would say he wants, if he were the kind of person who admitted to shit like that, is for Buffy to tell him he's wrong.
What she does is scrunch up her mouth and then mutter, "My mom made me."
Spike raises his eyebrows. "Joyce?"
"It's the weirdest thing, actually," Buffy says, swinging the door with one hand, a little like a threat. "Ever since I went to LA, she's calling me all the time—I think she feels bad about turning my room into the world's most reasonably priced storage container. And when I told her about your cat thing, you know, just making conversation, she wigged out like she had some personal stake in the whole thing."
Spike is oddly touched. This feeling is somewhat dampened by the possibility that Buffy's about to kill him, but what a way to go.
"So she was all, 'you should make sure Spike isn't lonely,' and, 'he isn't even evil right now, Buffy, he's on vacation!'" Buffy swings the door shut and crosses her arms over her chest. "And, my personal favorite, 'you should invite Spike for dinner on Thursday! Does he like meatloaf?'"
"Yeah," Spike says, "I like meatloaf."
Buffy's glare suggests that this is the incorrect response. "Stay. Away. From my mother."
Spike takes a cheeky swig from his blood; he hates drinking it cold, but it looks cooler than taking the time to sip it from a heated mug.
"Gonna be kinda hard, what with us having dinner parties and all," he says.
Buffy's lip curls.
"Sorry, I'm confused," says Spike, tilting his head. "If you don't want me to go, why'd you come out here just to tell me that. I'm not exactly in the phone book for Joyce to ring me herself."
"One patrol," Buffy says, growing increasingly manic as she continues. "One dinner with my mother, where you'll tell her that you're over the cat thing and you're out of vacation days starting tomorrow, and then you never talk to her again or I kill you!"
God, Spike missed this while she was in LA.
"Mm, tonight's not good for me," he says, inspecting his nails. "How's tomorrow for you?"
Buffy says, "Get your fucking coat."
Spike gets his fucking coat.
~*~
As far as patrols go, Spike assumes this one's gotta be pretty boring, or the Slayer's job description is way over-hyped. They don't run into a single vamp, which Buffy says is becoming more and more typical lately—something to do with Adam, probably.
They cover three graveyards, though. Mostly they just talk.
Buffy tells the story of how she blew up her high school on graduation day, her gestures growing more and more excitable as she goes through it. Slightly concerning when she's got a stake in her hand, but Spike surreptitiously drifts to walk on her other side and doesn't take his eyes off her.
"I still can't believe that was all you," Spike tells her, shaking his head in wonder. "I mean, I saw all the rubble when we stopped that apocalypse, but I figured it was some big demon guy army or something."
"Well, it wasn't all me," Buffy says, rolling her eyes bashfully. "The guys helped. I just got to do the cool part."
"Even so," Spike says, smiling. "You know how to stage a bloody impressive finale."
Buffy smirks at him, her hands shoved in her hoodie pocket. It's a furry cheetah print little number pulled over a dark shirt and faux-leather red pants, which is such an absurd thing to wear to fight the forces of darkness that Spike wants to kiss her on the mouth.
Wait, no. Repression. Seething hatred. Soon to be resumed Big Bad-hood.
What this collection of thoughts results in is Spike saying, "I wasn't trying anything, you know—with your mum. She just helped me with getting set up for Rupert."
Buffy quirks her lips in mild annoyance. "I know. I mean, she told me." She points her stake at him from the wrong end, holding it loosely between her fingers. "But if you try anything— I mean, if you sneeze on her and it looks suspicious—"
"I'm dust, I get it!" Spike says, holding his hands up. "Bloody hell, woman."
She nods resolutely, dropping her arm.
They're heading in the direction of Spike's crypt. It's a few hours till daybreak still, but there's nothing left to do.
Spike says, "You protect her from all of this. That's why you tried to hide it for so long."
Buffy snorts. "You mean like when we started that band?"
"Hey," Spike jokes, "if you ever decide to retire…"
She laughs, then sobers again reflecting. Says, "Yeah, I guess I do."
"That's good," says Spike. He glances over at her face. "You're a good daughter."
Buffy is staring straight ahead. Distantly, she asks, "Then what makes a good mom?"
Spike doesn't need his lungs, but he can use them when he wants to. To smoke, to pretend he breathes. Sometimes they hurt, from trying so hard.
"Couldn't tell ya," he answers.
She smiles ruefully and says, "Figures."
Silence settles over them. Spike can hear creatures rustling around them, early morning crickets chirping in the grass. When they get to the crypt, the silence doesn't go away.
"... Fancy a nightcap?" Spike offers, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "I've got that cocoa, you know, with the little marshmallows? Or whiskey."
Buffy's smile is lopsided. "No, thanks. I've got class tomorrow—I should get to bed before I regret having a life."
Spike stifles his disappointment.
"Suit yourself," he says, pulling his door open. "See you around, Buffy."
"Spike?" Buffy says, taking a half step forward. He hears the faint sound of something crinkling in her pocket. "One more thing."
Spike asks, "What's that?"
Buffy hands him a slightly crumpled piece of paper. He unfolds it; there's a phone number and an address on it.
"What's this?" he asks, frowning. "You taking a hit out on someone?"
"It's the Sunnydale Animal Shelter," Buffy tells him, a touch of laughter coloring her voice, and Spike's head snaps up. "You know, in case you wanna adopt an animal that doesn't already have a loving home?"
Spike looks helplessly at her.
"You're capable of a lot of things, Spike." Buffy’s fingers brush against his knuckles; she turns away, in the direction of her dorm. "But I don't think you're gonna eat the cat."
She's gone by the time Spike can move again. He stares at the place she used to be, then looks down at the paper. His finger traces over her handwriting, cute and loopy and scribbled at an angle over the ruled lines, and then he folds it over on itself twice and walks inside.
It's still empty. There's still dry food in the bowl on the floor, but the water's all evaporated. There's one more bottle in the fridge, but he gave the second to last to Tara.
He can hear the wind, and water dripping somewhere in the sewers beneath him.
Spike looks down at the piece of paper, a lump forming in his throat.
"I never really got to say goodbye to you," he tells the empty room. "And I've lived long enough to know that's how most things are. But you were a good cat. Thanks for that."
Carefully, he sets the paper down on top of the fridge. He's not ready for it yet, but maybe he will be tomorrow.
Spike lays his jacket on the back of his chair and unlaces his boots. He leaves the door cracked—call it for good luck—and crawls into bed.
~*~
Something smacks him in the face.
Spike startles awake, scrambling upright and nearly braining himself against the iron headboard, and he must still be half-asleep because that looks like—
"Meow," says Rupert.
Spike's chest seizes up. He blinks rapidly, willing his hands to unfist from the sheets, and croaks, "Rupe?"
Rupert says, "Meow!" and bats Spike on the nose.
Slowly, Spike reaches out a hand and cards his fingers through Rupert's fur—solid, real. If the scratch marks on his face weren't already proof enough.
"What're you—" he asks wondrously, but somehow he—he knows. It makes his throat threaten to swell shut. Early morning light is starting to filter through the crypt's dirty windows; plenty enough for both of them to see.
Rupert puts his paws up on Spike's shoulder and rubs his head against Spike's cheek.
"I knew," Spike says wetly. "I knew you'd wanna come home, Rupe."
"Mrrp," Rupert agrees. He kneads his claws against Spike's shoulder happily.
Spike closes his eyes and hugs both his arms around Rupert, breathing in the musty cat smell until it loosens the knot in his chest.
"But… hey," Spike says, steeling himself. He feels the tears finally, finally leak from his eyes, dripping down his cheeks and into the secret-keeping of Rupert's fur. "You're not supposed to be here, you know? You've got a family—a real, proper one. You've got that little girl who loves you."
Rupert meows softly, still nuzzling against Spike's face.
"And you helped me, Rupe—you really did. But I'll be alright now," Spike promises. He sniffles, nosing at Rupert's shoulder. "'Cause I'm not gonna forget how you saw me. I'm gonna try and be like that."
Rupert begins to purr, resting his full weight against Spike's chest. The vibrations rumble through Spike's sternum, shaking loose the dust on his ribs.
"So I'll do the right thing in the morning," Spike decides. "I'll take you back to your family."
Rupert meows drowsily one more time and then drifts off to sleep, his breathing going even and slow. He's drooling a little onto Spike's shirt and making that obnoxious wheezing noise at the same time.
He's the most perfect thing Spike's ever seen, the purest thing he's loved.
"... Bollocks to the right thing," Spike whispers in the quiet, and kisses his cat very gently on the top of the head. "Daddy's evil."