girlpire | FIC: Friday, Part 2 of 3 (I think...)

here's the deal, yo: i thought, when i first started writing this story, that i'd be able to finish it in two parts, but it looks like that is not the case. i apologize. i'm estimating at this point that the story will be over in three parts, but i could very well be wrong. in fact, it's likely. in any case, here is the second part, which is either 2/3 or 2/4, and which we are calling 2/3 to humor me.

Title: Friday
Author: girlpire
Rating: NC17... this part actually has some porn (sort of). Yay!
Pairing: Angel/Spike (Spangel)
Disclaimer: This story is based on the "Angel" series, with which I am not affiliated in any way. Joss Whedon is my master, etc.
Distribution: Please no. kthnxbye. :)
Summary: What if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today.
Warnings: This part - a little language, a little drug abuse, a little angst... a little graphic male/male vampire smut with ambiguous consent... you know, the usual.
Author's Notes: This is part two of a story written for

spring_spangel. The first part is [here], and this won't make sense unless you've read that. This part has not been betaed, so do let me know if Spike says anything too American. The word count on this part is almost exactly the same as the first part, but this one seems shorter because you only get four days as opposed to... however many were in the first one.

*

Friday
Part Two

*

You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always, you flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember: necrotempered glass, the sleeping vampire's best friend. You'll never be used to it.

You lie in bed for five minutes with your eyes still closed, trying to stay inside your dream. But it's too late; reality has already crept in and now you have no idea what you were dreaming about - just a vague notion that it was unpleasant.

You get up, shower, dress for work. You wear all black. Black suits you.

Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock. Maybe afterwards you'll take off early. You can do that; you're the boss.

You take a moment to hate life. How is it possible that you're already so tired? Then you jab the down button on your private elevator and the doors open up and you step inside.

This is how you start the day.

*

You and Spike have just beaten a Yoruna to death with one of its own tentacles. Actually, you're the one who did it; he just stood back and let you whale on the thing until long after it was dead and the thick tentacle was just a pulpy mass, falling apart a bit more with each blow.

When, panting, you finally drop what's left of the tentacle and step back, Spike looks at the broken remains of the demon and asks casually, "Owed you money, did he?"

"What? Oh. No." Your hands are bloody. "I just... wanted to make sure it was dead."

"Mm. Good job, mate. Thorough."

You just nod. A Shtreent, four vampires, and a Yoruna in one night. That is pretty good. But you're still feeling a little violent, for no real reason that you can think of, and even though you're very tired and you've got a splitting headache, you're ready to kill something else. "Do you know of any others?" you ask Spike. "Maybe something bigger? This one didn't put up much of a fight."

"Think it was asleep," says Spike. He's looking at you skeptically. "Y'know, maybe we ought to slow down a bit," he says.

"Why?"

"Cause you're going to hurt yourself if you go on like this, and I don't fancy hauling your fat arse around L.A. on my back."

"Don't be stupid. I'm fine."

Spike rolls his eyes. "You're so bloody tired you can barely stand up straight. This," he gestures toward the corpse, "is pure adrenaline, Peaches. You need to lie down for a while."

Your head is throbbing, right behind your eyes. "I'm fine," you repeat. But maybe he's right. You don't know why you feel so tired, so... angry. You've been feeling this way since you left your afternoon meeting with the Ri'ipkis. Like you could just tear something's head off - which is why you took Spike up on his offer to go hunting.

"Yeah, right," he mutters. And then he's reaching into one of his duster pockets and he pulls out a half-empty bottle of pills. "Here, take a couple of these," he says, and he tosses it toward you.

You catch it. "What are they?" you ask.

"Just take them. Trust me, you'll feel better."

You twist off the cap and sniff at the pills in the bottle. Then, what the hell, you up-end them into your mouth and swallow. "There," you say. "Happy?"

He's staring. "Christ, Angel, I didn't mean all of them."

You shrug. "Not like it's going to kill me, you know."

He looks uncertain for a moment, then shrugs it off. "Well, give it fifteen minutes, and you'll be feeling better than you have since Thursday," he says. "Either that or you'll pass out. Maybe both."

This is the worst headache you've had in years, so either way suits you just fine. But you don't tell him that. "So, any more demons?" you ask him again. "Vampires? Anything? I'm not picky."

He frowns, then says, "Come with me."

The Viper is parked not too far away, and you let Spike drive because your eyes hurt. By the time the car stops, though, you're feeling better. In fact, you feel like the top of your head is about to float off. "Spike," you say, "what kind of pills were in the bottle?"

"The good kind," he says.

"Not... happy pills, right? I'm not going to be happy, am I?" You're blinking kind of fast. You feel weird.

He hesitates. "No, not happy," he says. "Mellow, more like. They starting to work?"

You almost nod, but quickly stop yourself when your head nearly flops off. "Yes," you tell him.

"Well, I guess that's good, then," he says. "You can still walk, right?"

What a dumb question. "Of course I can still walk," you scoff, reaching for the door handle. You miss it a couple of times before you wrench the door open, start to step out of the car. You expect your foot to hit the ground before it actually does. You fall.

Spike is squatting down next to your head a moment later, looking at you. The sky above his head is moving around. You reach for it, end up poking him under the chin. "Shouldn't have taken so many," he says. "Told you."

"I feel better," you say. Your mouth doesn't move exactly when you think it will. "This is better than how I felt before. Are we at the beach?" You can hear waves.

"Yeah," he says. He helps pull you up off the sand, then closes the car door and leans you against it before walking around to the back of the car. You're kind of dizzy.

"So," you say, "why are we here at the beach?" You gesture around with your hand, and it goes very slow, so you do it a couple more times, watching your fingers.

"Well," says Spike, now rummaging through the trunk. "Remember when I said you should lie down?"

"No," you tell him. "Wait, yes. When?"

"Bout twenty minutes ago, pet."

You don't remember that. "Yes," you say.

Spike pulls a blanket from the trunk and holds it up for you to see. "That's why we're here."

"Oh. Okay." Your hands are bloody. "I need to wash my hands first," you say.

"Er - right, fine," says Spike. "Can rinse them off in the ocean."

The ocean. Right, that makes sense. You stumble a few steps toward the water, changing direction from one side to the other every time it moves. Finally, you just sit down on the sand where you are. "Spike," you say.

"Right here, luv," he responds. And he is. Right there.

You hold up your dirty hands to show him. "I can't find it."

He sighs. "Come on, Angel. Up." He helps you to your feet again, and you sway a little bit. He leaves a hand on your arm. "Follow me."

The two of you make slow progress down to the water. It's pretty. All black, like your outfit. Spike's, too. "Tonight," you tell him, "the ocean is dressed like a vampire."

Spike just nods. He looks like he's trying not to smile.

"What?" you ask. His expression makes you smile too. "What's funny?"

"Nothing," Spike says with a little grin. "Wash your hands now, Peaches. We're here."

You bend down and rinse your hands off in the cold water when it laps up the sand toward where you're standing. When you're finished, you draw an A in the wet sand with your finger. "Done," you say.

You let Spike lead you several feet away from the water and then watch as he spreads the blanket on the ground. You're still dizzy. Lying down is sounding like a better plan than you'd thought at first. Everyone should lie down. So you do, on the blanket. Sort of.

"I," you say, "am dizzy. Why did you have pills?"

Spike sits down on the blanket next to you. "Cause lately, I've enjoyed being dizzy myself," he says. "And it's faster than beer."

"Oh. That makes sense. Wow, you actually made sense, Spike."

He nods. "Happens sometimes. You should pay better attention."

"I will later," you say.

He chuckles quietly. "Alright."

"Are you laughing at me?" you ask.

"No," he says. But he is, you can tell.

The two of you stay this way for a while, you stretched out on the blanket and Spike sitting next to you, running his fingers through the sand. The shush of the ocean is making you sleepy. Your head feels light. You think of your meeting with the Ri'ipkis, and you sigh.

"Something wrong?" Spike asks you.

"Yeah... I don't remember why I was so upset about that damn meeting," you say. Your brow furrows. "Is that weird? That I don't remember what we talked about?"

"Nah," says Spike. "It's normal. You'll remember later."

"Oh. Good. I guess." The two of you sit for another long while. Then you say, "Sometimes I don't like the ocean."

"Yeah? Why's that?" asks Spike.

"Bad memories."

"Of the ocean?" his voice is mildly surprised.

"Yeah," you say. "But sometimes I like it. I like the way it... sounds."

"It sounds nice," he agrees.

"It sounds..." you search for the right word.

"Peaceful?" suggests Spike.

"That too."

"What else?"

You think for a while before it comes to you. "Lonely," you say.

"You think the ocean sounds lonely?"

"Listen to it, Spike."

You and Spike listen for a few minutes to the waves coming in and rolling back out again, shush, shush, shush against the sand. No one else is on the beach, and the longer you listen, the more you start to feel like the beach is the whole world, and you are the only two people in it. And the two of you are very much alone.

"Maybe," Spike finally says to you, "maybe everything sounds this way when you're lonely."

You think about that. "Maybe," you say. You're sleepy. You listen to Spike sifting his fingers through the sand. "Yeah, you sound lonely too."

"M'not saying anything."

"Your fingers. Sound lonely."

He huffs a small laugh. "They have each other, pet."

You close your eyes. "Like us," you say.

His fingers stop.

"I'm sleepy," you murmur. "But... I feel better. Always carry those pills, Spike."

Something touches your hand then, and you open your eyes. It's Spike's hand. "We have each other?" he asks softly.

You blink up at him, try to think through the thick cloud in your head. "Yeah," you say after a moment. You take his hand and bring it up to your face, press your cheek into it. "Your hand is cold."

He's just watching you. You try briefly to read his mind, but you don't know how.

"Let's go to sleep," you say. "This morning I had a dream..." Your voice trails off. You look up at the moon.

"A dream?" he asks.

"I don't... remember it." You close your eyes again, let go of his hand. But he leaves it there on your cheek, and then you hear him shift around on the blanket, and a moment later something soft brushes across your lips. "Spike, are you... did you just kiss me?" you ask quietly, not opening your eyes.

"If I say yes," he answers, "will you let me do it again?"

You don't say anything for what seems like a long time. It was kinda... nice. A hundred years ago, it would have been normal. Very slowly, you nod.

Spike kisses you again. Soft - like the air, or like water, or like... something you can't think of. Like your dream. It feels... you can't really think. Good. It feels good.

There's a pause. "Is this alright?" he asks.

You open your eyes. His face is very close to yours; his eyes are close to your eyes. You try to remember how long it's been since you looked at him this close. You smile. "It's nice."

"Nice?"

"I like your mouth." You reach up, touch his lips with your fingertips. "It's soft."

You feel him smile. He kisses your fingers, and this whole thing suddenly strikes you as very funny. You start to laugh.

"What is it?" he asks.

You're still laughing. "This," you say. "Everything. It's funny, isn't it?"

He tilts his head.

"We're the only ones in the world," you say, "and I'm all mellow, and... and the ocean is dressed like a lonely vampire, and you're kissing me, and I can't remember a fucking thing. That's funny." But as soon as you explain it, it doesn't seem very funny anymore. "Kiss me again," you tell him.

Spike hesitates, but then he leans down and kisses your lips again. It doesn't feel like air anymore. Heavier. You put your fingers in his hair, hold him to you. Like earth. His tongue touches your tongue. You try to think, but you can't. It just feels...

He pulls away again after a long moment. His lips are pink. He looks at you.

"Don't stop," you tell him. "This is something I want to remember." It seems very important for some reason.

He touches your hair. "You won't," he says.

And the ocean goes on shushing on the beach, and you're half-listening to the sound of it, and you look at Spike so close to your eyes, and you try to remember something else but you can't, and you feel strange and sleepy. You touch his lips again with your fingers.

"Spike, what's happening?" you ask.

He sighs. You feel his breath. "We're being held hostage in time," he says. "And every night you forget." He kisses your fingers. "And I can't save you."

"Oh." You turn your hand and look at your fingers where he kissed them.

"And I'm very sorry," he says.

"It's okay," you tell him. You don't know what he's talking about. "Don't worry about it. I just... wish I didn't forget."

"Me too," he says. "But sometimes, I'm glad that you do."

"Why?"

"Cause now I can tell you how I feel, and I don't have to worry what you'll think about that tomorrow."

You look up at his eyes. "How do you feel?" you ask.

He smiles sadly, then whispers to you, "Like this." And this time when he kisses you, your whole body seems to go weightless. It only lasts a moment.

*

You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always, you flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember where you are. Drapes, you think. I should get drapes. But you know already that you won't.

You lie in bed for five minutes with your eyes still closed. You try to remember what you dreamed, but you can't. And after five minutes, you're already thinking about something else.

You get up, shower, dress like always. You wear all black.

Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock. Maybe you'll take off early afterwards.

How is it that you're already tired? You must not have gotten enough sleep.

You press the down button on your elevator. When the doors open, you step inside.

This is how you start the day.

*

The meeting with the Ri'ipkis runs long. Spike’s already there when you come out, your shoulders hunched and your hands in your pockets. For some reason, you feel incredibly worn out, like you've spent the last few hours throwing yourself against a wall. You've got a pretty bad headache.

"I thought you said six thirty," you say.

He just shrugs.

Fine. "Okay, what did you want to show me?" you ask him wearily. "Make it fast."

"Come with me," he says. "Think you'll like this."

You follow Spike to an elevator. Since it's after quitting time already, the whole building is almost empty and most of the lights are off. The two of you ride the elevator up to the floor just below your penthouse, where the employee workout facility is located. You know this because you saw it labeled on a map of the building once, but you’ve never actually gone there.

The elevator opens into a vacant hallway. On one side there is a glass wall where you can see into a weight room, two racquetball courts, and a very large room with different kinds of exercise equipment. On the other side, there's a full basketball court, and you follow Spike in there. It's completely dark, but you don't bother with the lights. He leads you to the locker room, then out through the other side of the locker room into an area with an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Finally, you come to a small room with dim lighting, which is almost entirely filled with a gigantic hot tub, already heated and bubbly, just waiting to be relaxed in.

"Here we are," says Spike quietly.

You're staring at the bubbles, the heat in the room already prickling your cool skin. How could you have not known this was here? God, this is exactly what you need right now. The only thing missing is-

"Had some blood sent up," Spike says, gesturing to a small cooler on the floor beside the hot tub. "Should be some champagne, too, if you want." He's taking off his duster, hanging it on a peg on the wall.

"That's really... thoughtful," you say. Actually, it's fucking perfect. You can almost see yourself walking to the tub and just leaning over the edge, letting your body fall in and then just lying on the bottom and soaking for hours, all alone, no one to bother you... Spike’s taking off his boots.

Oh.

"Are you... I mean, I guess you're staying?"

He pauses, looks up at you. "Thought I might, yeah. Unless that's a problem...?"

"No, no. It's big enough." But. "Did you bring a swimsuit or anything? Because I didn't know we were going to..."

"Nah." He's taking off his shirt. “Just try not to stare.” He glances your way with a smirk.

You roll your eyes, then turn your back to Spike and start removing your clothes too. Normally, you'd feel weird about getting into a hot tub with Spike of all people, but you're already looking forward to sinking into the hot water and closing your eyes and pretending nothing else exists, so you figure you can put up with him for a little while at least. Anyway, the thing is huge, almost like a small raised swimming pool. It’ll be easy to pretend he’s not there.

You almost leave your boxers on, but then you would have to take them off before you got dressed again anyway because they'd be wet, and it's not as though Spike's never seen you naked before. So you go ahead and slip them off, and when you turn to get into the hot tub, Spike is already in it, but he's got his head turned politely away so that he doesn't see you naked.

You sigh as you slide into the hot water across from Spike. The water level doesn't quite reach as high as your nipples when you sit on the little bench, so you slouch down until you feel it go up to your neck. The warmth spreads slowly throughout your whole body and feels so good on your tired muscles. You don't know why your muscles are tired - you haven't actually exerted yourself at all today - but you feel as though you've been struggling for hours, pushing against some kind of barrier, and the heat from the water is so soothing...

You close your eyes. You try to remember what you dreamed last night. It's been nagging at you.

After a few minutes, your stomach suddenly growls. You can hear it, even muffled through the water, and you open your eyes. Spike looks over at you. "Hungry?" he asks.

"I could eat."

As Spike stands up, the water level goes down to his hips. His muscles are sharper than you remember because he's lost some weight over the last hundred or so years. Not that you're looking. When he leans over the edge of the hot tub to get some blood out of the cooler on the floor, the water level moves a little further down his body, revealing more pale skin lightly flushed from the heat. You avert your eyes.

Then Spike turns toward you and tosses a plastic pack of cold blood your way. You catch it, sitting up straighter on the bench so your chest and shoulders are out of the water. Both of you hold your bags of blood under the water to heat them up before tearing off the corners and beginning to drink. It’s human. You stop and look over at Spike, watch as he finishes his off.

“Why human?” you ask.

He drops the leftover plastic over the edge of the tub onto the floor. “Cause your head hurts and I want you to feel better,” he says simply.

His answer is startling. “That’s a first,” you reply.

He shrugs. His expression is hard to read.

After a moment of contemplation, you decide that’s it’s not really such a big deal because you know it came from the Wolfram and Hart supply anyway, which is all given willingly. Plus the little bit you already drank has made you feel considerably less tired even though it’s only been a few seconds since you drank it. You finally tip the bag back and finish it off.

“Want some champagne? To wash it down, like.”

“Maybe later.” You drop your plastic over the edge of the tub and stretch, and you can feel the blood you just drank creeping down through your body, all warm and satisfying. Your fingers and toes start to tingle a little. Even your cock perks up a bit, thickening lazily against your thigh. You close your eyes and just relax. Your head does feel better.

Without really meaning to, you let your mind drift to the last time you and Spike sat together like this in a hot bath, that time in Venice in... 1896? You remember sitting across from him in a bathhouse, several other men in the same giant pool, Spike’s foot in your lap rubbing, toes groping underneath the water. Your cock lengthens further at the memory, how you couldn’t stand the teasing for very long, took him right there in the pool and some of the other men even stayed to watch. You remember speaking quietly in Spike’s ear – how you owned him, how you could let all the men have a turn if you wanted, how you could make him love it, every second, if you wanted to, because he was yours. Before you know it, you’ve worked through the whole memory in your head: Spike’s back to your chest, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his head leaning back onto your shoulder, whispering fuck, fuck me, fuck me Angelus, while the water sloshed in the bath, lapping at your bodies as you gripped his cock firmly in your fist and stroked hard...

You feel Spike drift toward you, and you force the memory out of your mind. You shouldn't have been thinking about it anyway; you haven't in years. You don’t open your eyes, and he stops just in front of you, just a couple of feet away from your erection, which has lifted itself off your thigh and is curving up from your lap, filled with human blood. You’re glad that the bubbles and jets in the water make everything blurry down there.

“Know what this reminds me of?” Spike asks.

You didn’t expect him to bring it up. "Venice," you say. "1896."

“That bathhouse,” he says. “You remember.” He sounds pleased.

You finally look at him. He’s smiling. “You wanted to get a tattoo like mine afterwards,” you say. “On your ass. I’m not likely to forget that for at least another hundred years.” You smirk at him, pretend you weren't actually just thinking about what came before.

“You didn’t tell me how much it would hurt,” he says. In this way that's sort of... flirtatious? But maybe not. Probably not. Because that would be weird.

You shrug. “I forgot. I think I was drunk when I got mine.”

He chuckles. “You were always drunk.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Well, it was either get pissed or listen to you go on and on about the good old days – ale and wenches and... bloody... potatoes, and –”

“Hey, I never went on about potatoes.”

“Didn’t you? Maybe that was Dru.”

You huff a small laugh. There’s a pause, and then, “You could have it finished now if you want,” you suggest. “They’ve got these electronic needle things. It probably doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as it used to.”

He snorts. “Think I’d still want your stupid gryphon on my arse?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Uh, because you don’t own me anymore, maybe?”

You shrug. “You could get something else.”

“Like what?”

“Like... ‘Property of Angel.’”

Spike rolls his eyes. “Ha, ha.” Then he says, “Still, I do need something back there. To cover up the mistake and all. Thought about it, but never came up with anything good.”

You don’t actually remember the mistake, now that you’re thinking of it. It can’t be very big, or you'd remember. “How far did the guy get?” you ask. “Before you freaked out and killed him.”

Spike raises an eyebrow suggestively at you. “Wanna see it?”

Before you can think of an appropriate response to Spike’s... invitation, he’s already stood up and turned his back to you. A second later, he’s climbed up the first two steps out of the gigantic hot tub so that his ass is completely visible and you’re staring at the water rolling down his flawless skin.

He looks over his shoulder at you. “See?” he says. “Need to have it fixed.”

All you see is his perfect, pale ass, slightly pinkish from the heat and glistening with water. You clear your throat. “Have what fixed, Spike? There’s nothing there.”

He cranes his neck, trying to look down at himself. “Course there is,” he says.

“No, there really isn’t.” You find you can’t look away.

“You sure? Give it a closer look. Gotta be something there – I felt it.”

A moment later, your face is less than six inches from Spike’s ass, and you’re searching it all over for the start of a tattoo that obviously doesn’t exist. It takes longer than you’d think because you keep forgetting what you’re looking for. “Nothing,” you say again. But just when you start to back away, you see a tiny dot, not even half the size of a freckle. Is that... “Wait a sec,” you tell him. “I think I found it.” Unless it’s a tiny piece of black lint or something stuck to him... You brush a fingertip over it to make sure. Nope, that’s definitely permanent.

“Wow,” you tell him. “You killed a guy over this?”

“It fucking hurt,” he says, turning around.

You’re suddenly face to face with Spike’s cock. You quickly turn your head away, but not before you notice that he’s about half hard, and you wonder if that has anything to do with you, or with Venice maybe, or if it’s just the blood you both drank. But he doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary when he comes slowly back down into the water with you.

“Let's see yours,” he says, and for one startled moment you think he’s talking about your cock, because you’ve just seen his. But he means your tattoo.

You turn your back to Spike, and he comes close to you, and you can feel his breath on the back of your neck. He reaches out and traces the lines of the A with his fingertip, and you’re remembering falling asleep that morning in Venice with Spike on top of you, doing exactly the same thing after the two of you spent almost the entire night fucking, first in the bathhouse, then in the tattoo parlor, and finally in your own bed.

“Do you remember the rest of that night?” Spike suddenly asks. “Besides taking me to get inked.”

His touch is warm, and your throat feels tight all of a sudden. “Yeah,” you say. “I remember.”

His palm slides over the design on your back, then across your shoulder, down your arm slowly. “D’you ever think about it?” he asks, moving his mouth closer to your ear, his voice quieter now. “Ever think about... us?”

You swallow. His hand is still touching you under the water, fingers curved around your arm, moving slowly down. His other hand touches your back, slides down under the water too. Very slow. "That was a lifetime ago," you say softly. "There isn't an 'us' anymore, Spike." But you don't move away from him.

"Maybe... there could be," he murmurs in your ear. He presses close to you; you feel his chest suddenly against your back, his cock against your ass. It’s more firm now; he's as hard as you are. You blame the heat, the human blood. Under normal circumstances, the two of you wouldn’t... "I know you miss it," he whispers. His hands are inching around to your front; you feel his fingers spread possessively against your stomach.

And you’re thinking yeah, maybe you do miss it a little, sometimes. But this is so... it doesn’t feel right to be doing this now, not right here, not with Spike. Yesterday you were at each other’s throats, and now it’s all... with the hot tub, and the human blood, and his ass, and the fucking champagne. And then it occurs to you that he must have planned this.

As soon as you think of it, you’re immediately convinced that he did plan it; it’s so contrived - of course he did! You don’t know why, after everything, he would want to, but that’s the only explanation you can think of for... all of this. You take his wrists suddenly, trap his hands so they can’t move any lower. “Spike, what are you doing?” you ask him.

You hear him swallow. He’s been made and he knows it, but, inexplicably, he still tries. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this, Angel,” he says, sliding against you under the water, his erection pressed to your skin so you can feel the hard length of it.

You abruptly release his wrists, move away from his body, turn to face him. “Want what?” you ask. “A meaningless fuck – like when we were monsters? Is that what you want?”

He starts to say something.

“We’re not those guys anymore, Spike,” you interrupt. “Hell, we don’t even like each other anymore. We can’t just... why would you think I’d go along with this? Is this some kind of joke to you?”

You don’t quite understand the look on Spike’s face when you’re finished. You thought he’d just be irritated, shrug it off, maybe stalk out of the room naked and leave you to brood. But he looks sad. “Don’t have time for meaningful,” he says softly. “If we did, I’d...” he stops and swallows again. “But this is the only way for us now. So yeah, let’s be who we were, Angel. Just for today.”

What? What the hell is that supposed to mean? He’s moving toward you now and you back up, but you’re at the wall of the tub. How are you supposed to react to this? He’s never been this way with you before, coming on to you while looking so damn vulnerable and... naked. Fuck.

“Spike-” you start warningly, but you don’t get any further. You put your hands up to his shoulders with the intention to push him away, but he’s already wrapping his fingers around you under the water, already squeezing, stroking your cock in the bubbling heat, and it feels so damn good you’re suddenly not pushing him away but digging your fingertips into his slippery warm skin, cursing, holding him there.

“Call me William,” Spike whispers. “Like you used to...” His hand working you down there, all hot and wet, making your knees weak.

Your fingertips are bruising his shoulders. This isn't what you want. “Fuck,” you say.

“Just don’t think,” he murmurs. “Just... just remember...”

And then his mouth is kissing yours, soft lips pressed firmly against you, and you want to resist – you really do, you want to stop this, because it’s not... this isn’t how you’re supposed to be anymore – but you are and now you can’t, and you’re kissing him back, and his hand is moving hard and tight around your cock, and you’re angry with him, with his hand and with his mouth, and with yourself for not stopping him, because you know you could but it’s just so fucking good that you don’t want to, and you’re angry with yourself for not wanting to, and that makes you kiss him harder.

And then his other hand comes up and he curves his fingers around the back of your neck, holding your head still so he can own your lips, and your hands leave his shoulders and go around his waist – at least, that’s what you meant to do, but you’re suddenly holding two palmsful of Spike’s ass under the water while you kiss him, kneading, and you’re pulling him forward against you, tight, hips to hips, and he moves his hand out of the way and you’re grinding your cock against his cock and it’s good, but then you have to turn your head away from the kiss so you can think.

“This isn’t – this isn’t–” your lips start to say against his neck, but you’re not even sure anymore how the sentence ends, so you repeat, “Fuck.” How long has it been since you’ve been with someone? And then Spike’s biting at your shoulder leaving little red flower shapes in a row on your skin, and his cock is sliding beside yours, between your belly and his, tight and warm in the water, and your fingers are gripping his ass, spreading him open, and you're nudging with your fingers, rubbing over that little opening you can feel relaxing to your touch. This is happening so fast.

“Want you, Angelus,” Spike is whispering urgently in your ear, sounding just like he used to. “Inside. Please." And your fingertip sinks inside him, just a little, and then more because he's slick inside, he's slick inside with not just water, which means of course that he did plan this, the little fucker, he did it on purpose! He somehow knew that today you'd fuck him - after more than a hundred years, today he knew, and that makes you even angrier. You press two fingers in – he played you – and you feel his mouth drop open and the soft sound he makes against your neck, feel his fingernails scramble for purchase on your wet shoulders.

“You want me to be Angelus?” you growl in his ear. “Really think that’s wise, William?” And you’re twisting your fingers inside him in a way that’s making him whimper and try to climb you, or maybe climb inside you. He presses his face to the side of your neck and mumbles something that you can’t quite make out, then bites down, into your muscle, not hard enough to break the skin but hard enough to hang on with his blunt teeth and to leave a bruise for later. You're moving your fingers roughly, angrily, and you grab one of his thighs and hitch it up around your waist for more room and he calls out sharply into your flesh between his teeth. His fingernails are leaving long track marks on your back. And fuck, you're so turned on right now, with your fingers in Spike's ass. But you're still mad.

And your cock is still getting all kinds of hot tight friction against his as he moves against you, a jerky up-and-down motion that's more like he's only trying to fuck your fingers and your cock's just getting some action because it happens to be pressed to his and he happens to be thrusting near it. You finally yank your fingers away from him and you can feel the vibrations of the sound he makes through his teeth sunk in your neck before he lets go, leaving more marks. "Don't stop," he pants in your ear. "Go on, Angelus, give it to me-"

"Don't fucking call me that," you snap, at the same time pushing him back from you. He stumbles a bit and you grab his shoulders, push him down to his knees in the water with a small splash, just the top half of his head remaining above the water level, his blue eyes looking up at you. "Open your mouth," you tell him. And he does, under the water, and you push forward, your hands in his hair. And you slide right in his mouth while he looks up at you like that.

And you try not to, but you're thinking of William and Angelus, how they used to be like this with each other sometimes, how much you liked it. But you're not that guy anymore. You're not. Right?

He chokes a little bit, gags, coughs before he gets used to the water and not breathing, but you hold his head there until he settles. Then he's sucking you like a champ, like he never went a century without doing this, like he's getting off on it. He's jerking his cock under the water - you can't see him doing it but you know; you can tell. And you tip your head back and you try to just enjoy this and not think about anything, but you can't not think and you are enjoying it but only because it feels good, not because it feels right, because it doesn't. But it's too late now to stop - you missed your chance - so you just glare at the ceiling and take the waves of sensation as they pull through you towards his mouth. But you're not really giving yourself over to it, and it feels good, but you're not going to come this way, you can already tell. Fuck.

You look down, and through the blurry hot water, you can make out the shape of your cock going in and out of Spike’s mouth. The water level cuts across the bridge of his nose and his eyes keep looking up at you and it bothers you that he keeps looking; it makes you feel guilty. After a few minutes of wet thrusting and feeling your cockhead rub against the back of his throat, you pull his lips off of you because you’re tired of his eyes watching your face, and you growl at him, “Stand up.”

As soon as he’s back on his feet, you push him around and forward so that he has to grab the side of the hot tub to keep from falling again. He’s bent a little at the waist and you leave a hand on his slick back, keeping him that way as he grips the edge with both hands, white-knuckled. You kick one of his feet under the water and he spreads his legs apart, tries to look back at you over his shoulder, his breathing fast and shallow after being held under. But you don’t look at his face.

Your other hand underwater is at his ass, fingers feeling along until you find the indention, and you push in your thumb all the way, press down. He makes a sound that's half a gasp and half a curse and his feet slide wider apart. You keep pressing down as you slide your thumb in and out of him a few times, until he starts almost jerking away from you because it's too much, and he's breathing and making this sound almost like a whine. And then you move your hand away and line your cock up against the same place, and you're pushing forward slowly into his ass, which is tight, and slick, and hot, and all the things that an ass should really be at a time like this, which is perfect, and you hate it.

"Angel," he gasps when you're in, and your hand on his back clenches into a fist, and you reply quietly, "Don't. Say. Anything." So he bites his lip and you put your other hand on his waist and slide it down to his hip where you can get a pretty good grip on him, and then you pull out just as slowly as you pushed in, and every part of Spike is tense and tight, waiting for you to really start.

When you do start, it's good. But that's all you can say for it. It feels good, just like it always felt good when you took Spike back when he was William and you were Angelus and you fucked like demons on a fairly regular basis and enjoyed hurting each other in the process and none of it actually meant very much except that you liked the way it felt. And that's just the way it is now, which is wrong, and it makes you mad all over again that you're doing this, because this isn't what you do anymore; this isn't what you are, and whatever Spike is, you're pretty sure that since he got a soul this isn't him either. You don't fuck someone you don't like, and if the past few months are anything to judge by, you and Spike do not like each other.

Then again, maybe you're the only one who'll feel bad about this later - because obviously this is something that Spike does now because he's the one who wanted it in the first place. Plus you're remembering that he fucked Harmony as soon as he got his body back, and he doesn't like her either. Does he think of you the way he thinks of Harmony? Just a person he used to screw around with, and now that he's got an itch, you're in a convenient location to scratch it? Well, fuck him!

You don't make it hurt intentionally. Not intentionally. But. If it does hurt a little, if that's what it means when he makes those sounds that sound like it hurts, well, you know from experience that he can take it, and you don't stop. This is who he wants you to be anyway. Right? And he's still getting off on it, just as much as you are.

And when you finally come, you do it with a soft sound, a barely-there huff of breath, your fingertips dug deep into his bruised hips and your eyes shut tight, and he has already come, you felt it when it happened, and you saw the little white squiggles in the water briefly. He's not moving, hasn't for a while, and when you pull out of him, the water near his ass turns pink for just a second before the color dissipates. He's still gripping the edge of the tub hard, and he doesn't look at you as you step away from him. Which suits you just fine.

It's late by now and you're only one floor below your penthouse, so when you climb out of the hot tub, you decide not to stay in the room with Spike just to put your clothes back on. Instead, you gather them in a neat stack and head for the door, all in silence, and you're already leaving while he's still standing there in the water. But just before you're completely gone, he calls your name softly, and it makes you stop, although you don't turn around.

"This isn't what I wanted," he says, and you can somehow tell from the way he says it that he's got his eyes closed, that he's still gripping the edge of the hot tub hard to ground himself, to keep his voice from shaking. "If you ever remember today, Angel, remember that I didn't mean for it to be like that."

You don't know what he's talking about or what you're supposed to say, so you just tell him, without turning, "Go home, Spike."

Then you walk out of the room naked, leaving behind someone you won't be able to look at again for a very long time, and a faint, salty smell that could be sweat, or could be tears, or is maybe, probably, both.

*

You wake up to the sun on your face.

You may or may not have dreamed something. It sort of feels like you did, but you don’t know what it was, and after five minutes you stop trying to remember. It wasn't something pleasant anyway.

Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock. You're tired.

You get ready for work, press the down button on your elevator, think about how much you hate everything.

This is how you start the day.

*

You haven't seen Spike for a week. You know this while you're sitting in your meeting with the Ri'ipkis, just as surely as you know that when you walk out of here today you won't remember what happened between you, and you won't even mind that you haven't seen him today; you won't even really notice. You might even be glad, if you happen to think about it, which you probably won't.

You have another hour to hate yourself before you forget it all again. An hour to be worried about Spike, about what he's going through, an hour to wonder if something awful has happened to him that's physically keeping him from coming back. An hour to wonder if you're in Hell again, or if maybe he is, or if you both are. An hour to hate the world so much you're almost ready to give up, almost ready to sign the contract, to end this whole mess. If you did, and then tomorrow was Saturday, and it was all over, would you even remember any of this? Would you even know why you did it?

When this first started, you didn't sign it because it was wrong, because people would die, and you couldn't let that happen. Then you didn't sign it because of your friends, your friends sitting right here at this table; you couldn't let them down like that - they had faith in you. And then, when even they started to give up hope, you didn't sign it because you knew that Spike was still out there, knew the truth, was trying to put things right, was going to save you all. And now, now that Spike hasn't done anything for weeks to try to rescue you, now that he too has given up trying to put time right and has been focusing on you instead, he's still the reason you haven't given in, the reason you will never give in.

Spike makes the day bearable for you. You know you can go on this way forever, as long as Spike will be waiting for you when you walk out of this conference room, even though he always says he won't show up until six thirty. As long as he's talking with you, spending time with you, you can sit through the next meeting and you can think about him and not about what they're trying to make you do, and you can bear it. Even though repeating the day is wearing on you, and going through the same motions over and over is starting to be torture, you still have something to look forward to, even if you'll only know it while you're sitting right here, unable to stand and fight like you're so desperate to do.

But now... it's been a week.

One week isn't so long when you think about it. Just seven days. From one weekend to the next, Friday to Friday, it's not really that long. But when the one thing you look forward to is gone and you don't know when - or if - it's coming back, seven days can seem like an eternity. Still, you haven't given up hope yet. You can wait another week, as long as he does come back, eventually.

You keep blaming yourself, though you know it isn't your fault. If you hadn't been so... if you'd only known what was going on, if you'd known how he felt, how you're starting to feel... it could have been so different the other day. He should have told you, he should have explained... but you know if he had, you wouldn't have believed him; you would have thought it was some sort of scam, some trick so he could use you to get off. You know already that there's nothing to be done about it. As long as this goes on, there's no way for the two of you to be together unless it's like that again, and that's the very last thing you want. You don't want to come in this conference room and remember hating Spike again the way you remember hating him that day. All you want to remember are the reasons you're not signing this paper.

Besides, you already almost break down every time you remember what you saw that first day, the day before everything started over, the Original Friday. Spike must not remember, or else he would have said something. Right? Surely he would have mentioned - in one of those meetings you and your friends had every day when this first started happening - the reason he’s not affected while the rest of you are. Or maybe he just hasn't put it together yet.

Maybe it's better if he doesn't remember.

You think about that night on the beach again. Even though you were drugged at the time, and you never would have been that way with him if you hadn't been, that night is one you like thinking about. You hope he thinks about it too. You hope he thinks about when you told him that you have each other. Because that's how it is now. You're all Spike has, and all you have is him. You hope he remembers that.

It's all their fault. You glare at the Ri'ipki ambassador and his four minions stationed around the room with their arms raised, murmuring something that's keeping you in your chair. Your arms are free so you can sign the paper lying on the table before you with a pen on top of it, and for a moment, you consider grabbing the pen and throwing it into the ambassador's eye - despite the fact that the last few times you did that, it froze in mid-arc and dropped harmlessly to the floor because of their stupid magic. You can't even write yourself a note because the moment you try, then pen flies out of your hand. You want to lash out, to hurt someone, but there's nothing you can do. Your fists clench in your lap, fingernails digging into the top of your thigh until you smell the sudden, sharp tang of your own blood. No one else seems to notice. The Ri'ipkis don't have noses anyway.

It's late by the time you and your friends trudge out of the conference room. You feel so tired, like you've spent the last few hours throwing yourself against a wall. Must have been a bad meeting, although you don't really remember. You have a headache.

As you get in your elevator to go home, you catch the slightest whiff of blood. It's yours. You look down at your hands, shrug out of your jacket and examine your arms. You don't see anything, but then again, you are wearing all black, and blood doesn't show up well on it. When you get up to your penthouse, you take off your shirt and look at your skin. No visible wounds. Weird. You unbutton and unzip your pants, push them down to your knees.

There, on your thigh. Fingernail marks, already starting to heal at the edges. You touch them, fit your own fingernails against the tiny cuts. What the hell?

That night you go up to the roof. You bring Don Quixote in the original Spanish, but you don’t read it. You look out over your city. You look at the moon. You try to remember what your dream was.

Around 11:30, you go for a walk. You come across a largish, snarling demon in an alley. You look at it for a while. It looks back at you in this way that's pretty offensive, and you figure you ought to kill it. But you're just so tired.

If it's still there tomorrow, you'll come back and kill it then. Or maybe you'll just send Spike.

*

You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always. It makes you flinch.

Did you dream something...? You can't remember.

You take a shower, get dressed. Like always. All black.

Today's Friday. You've got that meeting. Damn.

You push the elevator button. Touch your hair one more time.

This is how you start the day.

*

You eat lunch in Gunn’s office with Wesley, Gunn, and Lorne. Fred was too busy to take a break and eat with you, although she does show up just in time to join the rest of you before meeting the Ri'ipkis at two o'clock. You all walk into the soundproof conference room together.

The meeting runs long. It doesn't go well; they want something you aren't prepared to give them. It's late by the time you and your friends trudge out of the conference room. You're so tired. Your head hurts.

You get into your elevator already thinking of watching the sunset, eating, then relaxing on the roof with a book. Something classic. Don Quixote, maybe - you haven't read that one for a while. But while you're thinking about this, you suddenly smell blood. You hadn't even noticed at first, but it's definitely blood, and it's definitely yours, and... your thigh kind of hurts. Huh, that's weird.

When you get up to your penthouse, you unbutton and unzip your pants, push them down to your knees. You actually make a sound of surprise when you see the elaborate wound on your leg. You have no idea when it happened, or why, but as you reach down to touch it you notice that your fingernails also have a bit of dried blood under them, and you wonder for one crazy moment if you somehow did this to yourself, although you know that's impossible because you would remember if you had. The right pocket of your pants has a rip in it, big enough to fit your own hand through in order to get to your skin, but there's no way you did this...

It really freaks you out.

You clean your hands and the score marks on your thigh as well as you can before redressing and heading down to the garage. As you get in the Viper, you wonder where the hell Spike has been all day. Normally on Fridays he drops by the office to bug you at least once. Doesn't matter, though. L.A.'s not that big; you'll find him. He needs to see this.

As it turns out, he's in the first place you look: his apartment. Easy enough. The hard part, though, is getting him to wake up. He's sprawled on the floor of his living room with two empty JD bottles and an unmarked pill bottle lying conspicuously near his hand. What the...? This can't be what it looks like. You shake him, call his name, but he doesn't respond. You slap his face a couple of times, start to shake him as violently as you can. His head snaps back and forth, but the only reaction you get is a small flutter of his eyelids and a soft grunt.

Shit. This is just like him, isn't it? Do something insane and leave you to clean up the mess when he's done. Fucking idiot. What the hell was he thinking? You're furious with him for doing something so unbelievably stupid, but at the same time, you're finding yourself incredibly relieved, because at least there's no way he can die from this. You're still going to beat the hell out of him when he wakes up, though.

You finally pick him up and take him to the bathroom, put his body in the bathtub. He's wearing his usual t-shirt and jeans, but his little white feet look so vulnerable without boots, and you clench your teeth, swallow against the knot in your throat. Bastard. You'll kill him for making you worry. Not that you're worried.

You turn on the shower and aim the cold water at his head. This time, you get a little more of a reaction. He scrunches his face, turns away from the spray like it's some kind of nuisance. He tries to cover his face with his arm, mumbles something incoherent.

"Spike!" you bark. "Get up! Now!" You kick the side of the bathtub near his ear, and he jerks his head away from the sharp noise, bonking it on the other side. He mumbles something again, then squints up at you with an irritated expression, looking like a half-drowned cat. "Spike!" you growl, "what the fuck are you trying to do to yourself? Huh? Answer me!" You kick the tub again, and he winces.

He mutters something, but the only part of it that you can understand is "Go 'way," before he turns his back to you and draws his knees up, curling into the fetal position as though he's just going to go to sleep right there in the bathtub with freezing water pelting down on his head.

"Spike. Spike!" you try again, but it's pointless; he's deliberately ignoring you now. You step into the tub, reach down and grab him under the arms, haul him upright under the shower. He's startled at first, tries to twist out of your grip, but his movements are sluggish and his feet keep sliding on the slippery bottom of the tub so that he can't stand on his own, and it's not too difficult to keep your hold on him.

"Stop it... go 'way..." he's mumbling, pushing ineffectually at you. But his struggling ceases when he hears your face shift. He squints at your eyes, blinks several times. "Angelus?" he whispers. And then his body goes limp in your arms. He's passed out again.

You do the only thing you can think to do. You bite him. His neck. Right there.

It doesn't wake him up, but that's just as well. You suck hard at his neck, then turn and spit out a mouthful of drug-infused blood, watch it run down the drain. Then you suck again. Spit. Bright red streaks toward the other end of the tub, past his white feet dragging limply against the slick floor as you hold him up. Idiot. You're so mad at him you can hardly think. Suck. Spit. He tastes good, damn him. You're careful not to swallow.

When you've taken enough, you raise your own palm to your mouth, slice into it with a fang. You press it to his lips and bleed very slowly, waiting. Finally, you feel a soft, involuntary suction begin against your hand, and you breathe a sigh of relief. You stand in the shower and let Spike drink from you until your muscles start to feel weak and it becomes difficult to hold his body up. "Bastard," you mutter. "Freaking moron."

Spike's eyes eventually flutter open, slightly glazed-looking. His weight starts to shift back onto his own feet until he's mostly supporting himself but the two of you are still leaning into each other, propping each other up under the freezing spray. Your hand finally drops from his mouth, and he watches it fall limp to your side. You're lightheaded by this point and your breathing is shallow, but you’re still grounded enough to scowl at him, water dripping down his skin as he blinks at you slowly. "I'm so gonna kick your ass," you breathe.

He just looks at you, an almost confused expression on his face, as though he doesn't understand what you're doing in his shower with him. Then he turns and looks at the water spraying down, and after a moment he reaches out slowly and turns it off. You realize you've still got your fingers tangled in his soaked black t-shirt, so you let go, and then you step carefully out of the tub, wobble just a little but manage to stay upright. You wish you had taken off your jacket before you did this. You struggle out of the soaked material now, drop it in a wet clump on the floor. Spike's leaning against the shower wall, not looking at you. You don't look at him either.

You walk slowly out of the bathroom and into the living room. You sit on his couch in your wet clothes and lean back, close your eyes. You've never felt so tired before in your life. And this was so stupid of you; it's not like he was in any real danger - you could have just left him there on the floor. Must have been... what, instinct? Well, it doesn't matter now.

You're shaking.

Spike appears from the bathroom a moment later, comes slowly over to the couch and sits beside you. You don't look at him; you don't even open your eyes. But you can feel him staring at you. Then you feel him put his hand flat against your chest, against your wet shirt.

When you open your eyes, which takes more effort than you expected, he's looking down at his hand on your chest with this bewildered expression, and he's feeling you as though he doesn't really believe you're there.

"You don't..." His voice cracks, and he clears his throat before starting over. "You don't come here," he says.

You don't say anything. God, you're so tired. And you're still pissed at him, shaking, furious. He's so stupid. So stupid. Fuck. How could he just...

He looks around the room and spots the bottles on the floor, the two Jack Daniels bottles and the pill bottle. "I drink those," he says slowly. "And I swallow the... and then I'm... for the rest of the day." He looks at you again. "And you don't come here."

You should have just left him there. You should have left him there on the floor, and let him wake up in a couple of days with a screaming hangover. Shit, he's so...

"You don't..." he says again. "No, you... you watch the sunset. You feed. You go up to the roof with a... a sodding book in sodding Spanish that you don't even bloody bother to read..."

...stupid. Inconsiderate. What if he had really done something... what if - what if he had dusted himself? Fuck.

"You go for a walk," he says. "And you don't come here."

"And what if I hadn't come?" you finally ask. Your voice lacks the anger you're feeling because you just don't have the energy. "What if someone else found you? Fuck, Spike, they'd think you were dead. What if... what if they had you embalmed before you woke up? Or cremated? Jesus..." You close your eyes. His hand is still on your chest and you're so mad at him, but you just can't... God, you were so scared, and it's... ridiculous. The whole thing. Fucking ridiculous. "Spike, don't you ever, ever do something like that again," you tell him quietly. You try to sound menacing, but it just comes out tired. You can't even look at him. "Do you understand me? Because if I ever find out you were that stupid again, I'll find you, and I'll hurt you. Do you understand? I’ll hurt you, Spike. Tell me you understand what I’m saying."

"Yeah," he says softly, but you don't think he really gets it. He couldn't.

And then the hand on your chest is gone for a moment, and you hear Spike shifting around, and suddenly his body is curled up next to you on the couch, curled into your side, his head resting against your chest where his hand had been, and he's pulling your arm around himself like he's planning to stay this way for a while, even though you're both still soaked to the bone and freezing. And he's got this grip on your arm like he's afraid to let go, afraid you'll try to leave if he doesn't hold you there. And you would. Your shaking has mostly stopped by now, but you're still so mad, and you'd move away from him if you could, but you just don't have the... some freaking moron drank all your blood.

"Spike, what are you... why are you doing this?" you ask him quietly, and your throat is still tight and you're not exactly sure what you're asking about, whether it's the way he's holding onto you or what he was trying to accomplish with the alcohol and pills, but you feel like you deserve some kind of answer from him.

He doesn't say anything for a long time. You get the impression from his silence that he's trying to decide what to say, that there are several answers and he's trying to pick just one. Then, finally, he just says, "Missed you." Very softly, barely louder than a sigh.

And his answer doesn't really make sense to you because you just saw him yesterday, but very little has actually made any sense today - least of all Spike - so you don't try to argue with him or demand any kind of real response, and he shifts again, pushes closer, holds on. And a very short while later, you smell tears.

You force your eyes open, and you look down at Spike, and he's got his eyes closed but you see the two shiny tracks on his face. Before you can ask, though, he turns toward you a little more, and he buries his face against your wet shirt, and his body shakes just a bit but then stops quickly, and you don't say anything about it. But you do manage to find the energy to pull him a little closer, and that seems to be enough for now.

You hold Spike this way for a long time. He falls asleep, but you've got him so it's alright. The two of you are going to have a serious conversation about all of this tomorrow, and first thing on Monday you’re going to make him talk to the counselors at Wolfram and Hart.

Your hand hurts. It's stopped bleeding, but there's a large bruise forming around the wound. When was the last time someone fed from you? You'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Funny that you could forget something like that.

You watch Spike sleep. You try for a while to remember what you dreamed last night. It feels like it's right there on the edge of your mind, just a fraction of an inch out of reach.

It's nearing midnight when you remember why you came over here in the first place - to show Spike the message scratched into your leg. It'll be healed by tomorrow, but you figure you can just tell him what it said, rather than wake him up now so he can see it. You wonder again if it's possible that you did it to yourself, and then it occurs to you that maybe it was some kind of sign, a message from the Powers, and maybe it appeared on your leg without any kind of intervention at all.

It would actually make sense, today of all days, for the Powers to tell you, "Find Spike."

*

Third part [here].

*

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FIC: Friday, Part 2 of 3 (I think...)

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