III

Christ, the world was slow to change sometimes. L.A. didn’t look all that different from the last time Spike was there. The cars were electric and a bit more space-age, and there was plenty more steel and glass than brick and mortar. But the changes were all superficial. People never changed

Look at him.

He looked the same, obviously, though he had ditched the bleach. Sixty years of bleaching his hair had finally gotten tiresome, and it had gotten too bloody hard to do it in the farthest corners of the world. His hair was now a natural dirty blond. Still slicked back though. He had standards.

And black never went out of style. Whatever the country, he could always find a town that sold black jeans and T-shirts, or at least some variation on the theme. He had had to mix things up a bit with a few Army style black sweaters and cargo pants, but his look was still there since he wore them nice and fitted. He had ditched the Doc Martins long ago for a pair of R.M. Williams retrofitted with steel points and serrated blades at the back. They were much better suited for his kind of work these days. He had slimmed down a bit, too, since the last time he was in L.A. - not to the scrawny ponce he had been as a fledge - but back to his fighting best. Brawling with demons the world over and fending off clueless Slayers would do that.

He was well and recovered from his tussle with the Aussie Slayers. After buying four Sydney butcher shops out of pigs' blood, he was well prepared for the journey by cargo ship across the Pacific. Drinking cold blood from an Eski for weeks hadn't been a picnic, but it had got the job done. He'd paid the ship's captain plenty of dosh to let him wander aboard freely, so there'd always been blokes to beat at poker over a pint, and a few of the lads had told some half decent stories. The real struggle had come when he had been alone on the top deck, hypnotised by the undulations of the water. His mental discipline would weaken, and he would inevitably think about the last time he had been in California. It wasn't L.A. he had thought about though.

After three weeks on that bloody ship, Spike reckoned he had relived every meaningful moment he could remember of his time in Sunnyhell. The memories had bubbled forth like a body at sea that refused to sink. The problem wasn't that the memories were bad - though most of them were. The memories just forced to the surface feelings for her that wouldn't bloody die - no matter how deeply he tried to bury them.

It had taken his death at Drusilla's fangs to reveal his infantile infatuation with Cecily for what it was; and it had taken more than a century for him to accept that his blind, unrequited devotion to Drusilla hadn't been what the poets had praised. No, he had learned about real love when he had died in the Hellmouth - a man made sacrificial burnt offering to the Powers that Be - merely for the life and the world of one girl.

When their hands and eyes had come together at his last moments, and she had whispered the sweetest lie ever told; real, honest-to-God, unadulterated love was born of the most self-less kind - effacing all previous incarnations his love had taken for her.

When Spike had been cheated of a hero's farewell, and had materialized out of the amulet, his love for her had returned too, but with some older, childish elements. But it had fully matured - he believed - when he had resolved to let her go. She had never belonged in the dark with him. And more importantly, she had never wanted the dark. Never wanted him.

Still, Spike had only been able to let her go, by refusing to let her in. At his most vulnerable moments, when his thoughts would turn to her, he would drink, brawl or shag them away. And when his chest would feel too tight, or when an ache would settle over his breast, he would refuse to give it meaning, consider its source, or acknowledge its significance. Whenever Angel discussed her, he would stay silent on the subject, or allow himself only the one question.

So the heartache was bearable, as long as Spike kept her out of his mind, and he had showed excellent discipline in that regard ninety percent of the time. At least, until the trip back to L.A. Three weeks of cold pigs' blood had healed fresh wounds, but his memories had reopened old ones.

When his ship had finally docked in L.A., Spike had been desperate to leave the memories at sea, floating on those cold undulating waves. As always, he hadn't been so lucky. Bitter scenes from the past stubbornly stayed with him, weighing him down like a shroud.

So once in the city, Spike headed to the first demon bar he could find - reckoning he deserved the good stuff, He had picked the right joint too, because more than one demon there could tell him where the Poof lived. He was infamous in that town. First he was Angelus, former Scourge of Europe; then Angel of the tortured soul; then Angelus again, and back again; then the head of Wolfram & Hart; and then the vamp with the balls to take them on, in a backstreet alley. Most demons figured him for dead after that. And yet here is again, risen from the ashes, blah, blah, blah. The bloke changed allegiances so much, demons couldn’t keep up. So they mostly just kept away from him. As much as Spike would love to do the same, he was feeling aimless and wanted intel on the next Dragvlok requiring his funeral services. So after a few days sleep at a Hotel Six, he headed towards Angel’s place just as dusk was settling.

He reached the neighborhood after nightfall and stood across the street from the house to size up the place. He hadn’t figured Angel would keep a three-storey house, but he supposed it was more private than a high-rise apartment with nosy neighbours, and it probably had a basement. It reminded him a bit of the old mansion on Crawford Street in Sunnydale, only brighter and stucco. He guessed Angel didn’t mind recalling that chapter in history. Well it had been more a low point for Spike on the humiliation scale than Angel, though Angelus had him beat on the evil meter then. Evil or shame, take your bloody pick. He thought about that one. Watching Angelus fuck the love of your life while you’re stuck in a wheelchair waiting for Drusilla to feed you a puppy? Ugh. Spike would take evil any bloody day.

Crossing the street in long strides, he was about to barge in, when the Poof ruined his plan by opening the door, and his stupid mouth:

“Spike?"

Spike raised an eyebrow in reply.

"Spike," he repeated blankly.

"You said that already, mate." Angel looked like a fish choking for air... like an angel fish. He stifled a chuckle.

"What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too Gramps. I’d ask you to invite me in, but you’re a dead son of a bitch, so move over and let me through.” Angel didn’t move for a good ten seconds, before he let him into the foyer.

“So what's going on? Why are you back in L.A.?”

Was it really that big a deal to the tosser? Curious. But Spike wasn’t about to let Angel know that. “Why not? It’s been forty years for christsakes. Any bad memories are buried, mate."

"Right," Angel replied, almost to himself. "So, how long are you here for then?”

Spike didn't give a toss if Angel liked him or not, but after everything Spike had done, he thought he deserved more respect than this. The bastard hadn't even let him past the foyer, let alone offered him a drink.

“Relax, mate. Just passing through. Was in Oz hunting those Dragvloks, wasn’t I? And fending off packs of thankless Slayers I might add. Figured I'd head to Vegas for a bit of poker and R&R. Last time I checked, you had to pass through California to get to Vegas.”

“So you, what, thought you’d just swing by to say hello?”

Pathetic. Angel was never very good at snark. He’d been in America too long. Spike stayed silent for a moment as he thought about how to respond. He needed two different pieces of information from the Poof now: the latest intel on the Dragvloks, and the reason Angel didn't want him in L.A.

“Actually, I thought I’d swing by Clem’s and say hello. Apparently he’s been in L.A. since Sunnydale. Heard a bloke at a bar mention him and was gonna look him up, but I heard another bloke mention you, and figured I give you the skinny on Oz while I was here.” Nice one, Spike.

“And the skinny is what? You killed the Dragvloks? Good for you. Knew you could do it. Wouldn’t have sent you after them otherwise. Thanks for the personal telegram. Look, if that’s all, Spike, I’m heading out soon.” Angel left the foyer at that and started wandering around his bare living room as if there were things to collect before he went about his imaginary business.

“Actually, mate, the skinny is on the Slayers.” Angel looked back at that. “These young chits are soft. Uncertain. Untrained. Yet strangely overconfident,” he mused. "They’re sitting ducks out there. It was the same in Singapore as in Oz. Tel Aviv. Capetown. I hate to admit it, mate, but the Council of Wankers is slippin’ now that ol’ Rupes is out of print. These birds won’t last long.”

“You sound concerned, Spike,” Angel deadpanned.

“Fuck you, mate. Last time I checked, I've been the one gettin' his fangs dirty out in the world, killing demons, protecting humans. My hat is whiter than yours, you tosser." And having to admit that still made Spike cringe, but after forty-odd years, there was no denying which side he was on. "Do I have to remind you, you prick, who volunteered first for your daft idea to take on the Black Thorn?”

Bugger. He had already regretted the words before he’d finished saying them. He loved to get a dig in at Angel whenever he could, but those were Angel's best mates that had died, and Spike had grown a soft spot for the lot of 'em, even Blue. He could see he had wounded the prat. “Sorry. Forget I said that.”

Avoiding the guilt-ridden eyes of his grandsire, he took an unneeded breath. “Look, yeah, I am concerned. The Slayer population looks to be shrinking fast, and I’m not getting a sense the dead ones are being replaced. I don’t know how this thing works now. I’m not in the loop, am I? And I know it was working alright when there was only one bird, but the world has gotten used to thousands of ‘em and they’re droppin’ like bullet shells. Just thought you should know how things are lookin’ outside your Hollywood bubble. Get on the digital whatnot and let the New Scoobs know what’s up, cause they’re losing the war out there. If I were still the Big Bad, I’d have bagged a hundred Slayers by now. There’s bloody fledges out there that can boast about baggin’ two Slayers now for christsakes. It’s pathetic!”

Spike waited a full minute for a response from Angel. Something was going on behind that massive forehead of his. Wheels were turning, with little rats on them. The Poof wasn't even looking at him anymore.

“Alright, Spike."

"Alright, what?"

"I’ve got news on the Dragvloks.”

”Yeah?” That was easy. Task number one complete.

“Yeah.” Angel swallowed slowly. “Word is, they’re headed to L.A.... to take out the Slayers here."

"L.A.? Then what were those two I bagged doing Down Under? Visting the bloody Opera House?"

"I'm not sure. They dispersed pretty widely after the Slayers destroyed their habitat. But my sources tell me they're being called back. Apparently Gozen, the oldest and most powerful among them, wants vengeance against the Slayers responsible, and most of them live right here."

“Another L.A. showdown then. Sounds interesting. Where are the Dragvloks regrouping, then?”

Again, Spike found himself waiting for Angel to reply. Must be the rats again.

“Doesn’t matter. We need to be able to handle them when they get here. Bu- ... but the Council’s Slayers will try to cut them off before they reach L.A. We’re the second front.”

"Hell yeah, we are. Second and last, mate.”

So apparently Angel was okay with Spike in L.A. after all. Task number two was scratched off then. Maybe it was just the way he'd thought and Angel saw him as just a painful reminder of the past - but one that Angel would tolerate now that he was here - espcially with the Dragvloks coming. Hmm... And maybe Spike would meet a nice vampiress who would forgo her wicked ways for him and they'd run a pig farm in Idaho. Nope, the Poof was still hiding something. He just needed a bit of time to work it out.

"So who's coordinating this showdown then?" Spike asked with a trained nonchalance.

"Coordinating?"

"Yeah, you know. Who'd the Council appoint as the brains of this operation? Someone senior I imagine. One of the Golden Girls, no doubt." Spike was wearing his best poker face, but they both knew he had a lousy hand.

"Golden Girls?" Angel questioned.

"You know who I mean, mate. The Witch, the Whelp..." He swallowed unconsciously. "And the Slayer. They the puppet masters, then, for this showdown?"

"Willow's aware of the situation, but she's leaving it in the hands of the L.A. Slayers."

Angel's poker face had improved. Fuck. Fine, then. He wouldn't give the pillock the satisfaction of hearing him ask about Buffy any further. The prick thought that gave him some kind of power over Spike - as if Spike couldn't find out about her on his own if he wanted to.

"Gotta say," Spike responded. "I thought Red was brighter than that - leaving the Slayers to fend for themselves - and more compassionate too. You reckon the power is getting to her head?"

"Spike, Willow's been in control of the magic for a long time."

Condescending prick. "Not that power, mate. The more mundane, but equally destructive one - taking over the Council of Wankers from Rupes."

"I don't know, Spike," Angel replied in a sigh.

"Well, maybe she needs her friends to set her straight. Back in the day, they always had her back. No matter how much damage she caused with the magic -"

"Just ask, Spike..." Angel interrupted, as if exasperated.

Fuck. He had just told himself he wasn't gonna do it. He was a masochist - of the most pathetic kind - asking after a fucking grand mum. He sighed deeply, feeling suddenly exhausted.

Head down, eyes askance, he relented: "Is she happy?" His voice was hoarser than he had expected.

Angel landed a heavy paw on his shoulder, like a hammer to a stubborn nail. There was nothing comforting about it. A small smile played at the corners of Angel's mouth. "She's Buffy. What do you think?"

This time, the answer didn't satisfy.

“So, do you need a place to stay?” Angel added, disrupting his thoughts.

“Huh?” Spike was pulled from his funk by a growing confusion.

“There’s plenty of space in the house if you want a room.” This was downright bizarre. And starting to piss him off.

“Don’t be a stupid git. I don’t fancy listenin’ to you sing in the shower everyday, let alone seein’ your mug first thing when I wake up. I'd rather sleep in a fucking greenhouse. Pillock. You know, this ain’t the naughties, mate. It’s the bleeding forties. Again. I’ve got resources now, legally obtained too.”

“Yeah? And what –“

“None of your damn business." Nothing like a little anger to give his mood a lift. "I’m at a hotel at the moment, but if I’m gonna be in town for a while, I’ll get a place. You know my number. Ring me with the when’s and where’s when you know 'em. Until then, you do your thing, I’ll do mine.” Spike turned to leave, but Angel grabbed his arm before he could take a step.

“Wait. You should know that the Slayers have got a warehouse southeast of here, on Trimmold Street. It’s better you look elsewhere for a place. They’re trigger happy with a crossbow these days after losing so many, and they don’t know you.”

Spike considered that. Why the prat suddenly gave a fuck about his unlife, he didn't know; but he really didn’t fancy another ambush from the very chits he was there to protect. Angel was makin’ a bit of sense, there.

“Actually, your best bet is my neighbourhood. Mine is the only one they don’t patrol because I’m here.”

Ah, so the ponce wants to keep tabs on me? That works two ways, though.

“Yeah, alright. Sounds like a plan.”

“Just let me contact a demon I know with some rental properties and –“

“Christ, mate, were you always this much of a control freak? I’m not a fledge anymore, Angelus. Spike’s all grown up now. I got this.” And with that, Spike was gone.

Storming out of the house and down the street, Spike cursed at himself for his lapse. "Forty fucking years of discipline and I go fishin' for information - giving the prick power he never deserved!"

Digging into his pants pocket for his Winnie Blues, Spike stopped midstride to light his fag before taking a deep, long drag. He held the smoke in his lungs for several steps in the hopes that it would burn out the ache that had settled in his chest.

"Fuck", he exhaled.

There were some things time didn't change.