Buffy somehow found the lavatory. Lots of smashing into walls and sturdy chests of demons eventually paved the way to a dingy little unisex bathroom with a cracked mirror. All she could see of herself in said mirror was a perfectly arranged head of curls, thanks to Dawn, who decided Buffy would benefit from a new hair style. She couldn't make out her features, only a slash of red where her lips should be and a hint of green where her eyes stared back at her, hazy and cloudy.

Her bladder felt like it had stretched to the point of bursting and she gladly relieved herself on the toilet, which looked pristine. Somewhere, dimly, in the back of her numbed mind, she wondered if demons even used the bathroom, then she recalled stepping in Urgua Demon waste once in her new boots.
The thought set her stomach to rolling and she fought to maintain control of the liquor that was slowly burning its way back up her throat. After several seconds, she won the battle of the bile, and felt confident enough to leave the safe confines of the restroom to wade back through the demonic patrons.

The music assaulted her first. It was heavy metal, something about Heaven being on fire. The beat was good, but it was not the kind of bar where people danced. Through a sea of blurred blobs, she wound her way back to her stool, which someone, or some thing, had been kind enough to replace.

She pulled herself back onto it and picked up her empty glass, turning it upside down. Her pouty face evidenced the lack of amber liquid and she tapped it on the bar.
"Yoo hoo!" she called. "Can I get a refill?"

"You can get down and come with me," came the reply from behind her.

Buffy turned, half slipping off the stool again, only to be caught in Spike's arms. "Easy, luv," he told her softly, relishing the feel of her against his chest. "Are you okay?"

"Never better! Except that the service here is CRAP!" Buffy snapped.

Spike watched her struggle back into an upright position and glanced at the bartender, giving him a look that promised a future encounter. Prongg, never one to turn down a challenge, made his way down the bar. "Keep your human tail out of here, Spike."

"It's a free country!" Buffy chimed in, hiccupping loudly.

Prongg ignored her, concentrating on the vampire instead. "You're already considered a traitor. One word is all it will take and every single demon in this room will let you know what they think of that."

Spike glanced around the room, taking note that several of the demons had keened their pointy ears, listening intently. Normally, he would have engaged and busted hell off its hinges, but the Slayer - she was in no shape to defend herself. The scent of the drying blood on her hand was enough to drive *him* over the edge. No telling how it was affecting everyone else. "Just give me a minute, Prongg."

Prongg turned, grabbing a piece of paper that was tacked on the wall. "This is her tab. Pay it."

Spike took it and his eyes widened. "She can't drink that much! Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"Mostly I think you're paying. Idiot comes in second." Prongg held out a scaly hand. "Ante up."

Knowing that his pockets were threadbare, Spike shook his head. "I'll keep her away. But that's it. I'm not paying for her."

"If she comes here again, you're a dead man." Prongg snatched away the glass in front of Buffy and returned to the end of the bar.

Spike eased himself on the stool next to hers. "Slayer, I think we should go."

"You just got here." Turning, she looked at him through bleary eyes, trying to focus. "Besides, I don't have anywhere to be."

"That's not true," Spike replied. "There are a million other places to be. You could be outside. You could be at home. You could be at the Bronze. You could be on the phone."

"You sound like a Dr. Seuss book, Spike. I could be in a car. I could be in a truck. I could be in a coffin. But my life has to suck!" Buffy sighed and leaned down to pick up her bag. This time she did fall, headfirst, straight down onto the concrete floor. "Ow."

"Are you okay?" Spike hid his chuckle behind his hand.

"Do I look okay?" Buffy asked, staring up at him from where she had sprawled onto the floor. "Are you laughing at me!? I have a stake!"

"Yeah, yeah. Sing me a new tune, Slayer." Shaking his head, Spike bent to help her to her feet, then put the weapons that had fallen out back into the bag. "I'm taking you home."

"I don't need to be taken anywhere and even if I did, I wouldn't go there. I hate it there. They act like - well, they act different." Buffy crossed her arms, scowling at a wayward demon who happened to get too close. "And what are you looking at, Iguana-head?"

The demon puffed up, obviously ready for a fight, but Spike grabbed Buffy's arm and led her toward the door, while she protested, loudly. "Will you keep quiet?" he growled, successfully moving her through the crowd.

Once outside, he held out his hand. "Give me your keys."

"Where's your motorcycle?" Buffy asked, stumbling around as she dug through her purse for her keys.

"I rode here with someone." Spike held out his hands as she produced the keys.

"Then you can ride back home with them." She spun on her heel and started toward her car, but he quickly caught her and managed to take the keys from her. "Asshole," she murmured.

"At least I'm a sober asshole," he muttered under his breath, walking her to the passenger side of the car, where he strapped her in.

As he slid behind the steering wheel, he realized that he was facing a dilemma. If he took the Slayer home, he'd have to answer a million questions. If he didn't take her home, the gang would be beside themselves with worry. Not that he cared.

"Are you just going to sit there or are you going to drive?" Buffy glared at him.

Spike started the engine and pulled out into the road. "Where do you want to go?"

Buffy didn't reply. She stared out the window, watching the scenery flash by. She remained quiet until Spike pulled into a well lit parking lot next to a payphone.
"What are you doing?"

"I'm calling the others. Letting them know you're okay."

She remembered that the phone had been disconnected and shook her head. "Phone's off."

"They're at the Magick Box. They told me they'd have a late night. Still researching that demon thing, are they?"

Buffy shrugged and stared out the window again. People walked in and out of the store, unaware of the dangers around them. They didn't know that a real life vampire was standing a few feet away, talking on the telephone. They didn't know that she had died and come back and died and come back again only to wish she'd never returned. And they didn't know that she put her life on the line every single night so they could have nights like this. Carefree nights of getting gasoline, buying chips and drinks, and listening to the radio too loudly. She hated them all for their oblivion and their love of life.

Spike crawled back behind the wheel and looked at her. "I told them we were tracking a demon and you'd be late."

"What did they say?"

"They said that you're late every night and they're always asleep when you get in anyway. Is going to the Lair a habit now, Slayer?"

"You told me to try on your world. It fit."

"You're going to get yourself killed."

Buffy glanced over at him. "You say that like it's a bad thing." She watched his jaw clench and knew that she'd scored a direct hit. "You also said that all Slayers have a death wish, so don't act surprised."

"I'm not surprised so much as disappointed," Spike told her. He started the car again and headed toward his crypt. "You used to have spunk."

"Yeah, well, I died."

"And to hear you tell it, it wasn't that bad. So stop acting like you're all traumatized and get on with the soddin' living."

"That's what I'm *doing*. Living."

Spike stopped at a red light and tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. "You're the deadest living person I know," he told her casually.

Buffy unfastened her seatbelt and turned in her seat so she could look him dead on. "And you're the most living dead person I know. Since when are vampires supposed to *care* anyway. Retard!"

With that, she opened her car door and leapt out. Running down a side road and disappearing around the corner. Swearing, Spike gunned the car onto the curb, turned on the flashing lights and killed the engine. He was chasing after her within seconds, calling her name with every other step. "Buffy! Stop!"

Buffy put on an extra burst of speed, thinking if she just ran fast enough, the ghosts that haunted her would lose track of her. She wasn't anticipating running out of road, or slamming face first into the side of a building that signaled the end of the road. With a busted nose that caused her to see stars of pain, and also spilled blood at such a pace that it could give her leaky pipes a run for their money, she leaned over and hurled up every single ounce of liquor she had devoured.

Spike heard her heaving before he was close enough to see her. He grinned despite himself and despite the worry he felt. Served her right, he reasoned. She should know better. He told himself he'd be firm, tell her that she'd better snap out of it before he snapped her out of it, then he'd try to make her mad enough to actually ... snap out of it.

His resolve crumbled when he got a good view of her, though. She was doubled over, blood dripping down her chin as she cleansed her system of all the booze. Instead of pointing out that she deserved it, he moved closer and pulled her hair back, keeping it clear. When he thought it was safe, he tilted her chin so he could see the damage, pressing lightly on her nose to check for a fracture.

"Ow!" Buffy screeched, pushing him away.

"It's not broken." Spike fumbled in his pockets for a tissue, but came out empty-handed. Rolling his eyes at his misfortune, he pulled off his duster, then his overshirt, which he handed to Buffy. He stood watching her mop up the blood with his favorite shirt with a look of disgust. "Are you ready to get back into the car and stop acting like a child now?"

"I am not acting like a child." She pinched the bridge of her nose, glaring at him over the top of the shirt in her hands. "Maybe if your manner wasn't so offensive, I could stand your company and wouldn't have to run."

"Last week you said I was the only person you could stand to be around." Spike pointed out.

"Last week you weren't trying to psychoanalyze me like everyone else. You were just -- you listened is all."

"You can do better than that."

"I was drunk."

"And what are you now?"

"Sick." She barely managed the word before she was doubling up again - turning inside out.

Spike shook his head and leaned against the wall, waiting patiently for her next bout of nausea to end.