Disclaimer: All IP rights to BtVS are owned by Joss Whedon and The Powers that Be. No infringement of those rights is intended.

A/N Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far - please keep doing it, it's the only way I'll get better. Huge thanks to Diabola for the extensive beta skills applied to this chapter.

Prodigal
Chapter 4

The next moment Spike was doubled over, trying to stay on his feet, agony coursing through him as his hands cradled his groin.

"Be back in a bit, guys," he heard her saying through the disorienting pain, then felt a warm, manicured hand close none too gently round his upper arm. He was dragged off, senses still reeling, only vaguely noticing a door slamming behind them cutting down the thumping beat in the club. Hauling him down a corridor and into a small room harshly lit by fluorescent strips, the Slayer pushed him unceremoniously onto a couch.

"I just don't believe it," he heard amusement in her voice, laced with condescension. Her tone cut through his suffering and made him straighten up to look at her. His turquoise, angry eyes fastened on her green ones.

"What are you having problems with, pet? The fact that I nearly had you or the fact that you wanted me to?" He retorted, cursing himself for getting into this situation. Damn this girl! Someday soon he was going to take this latest humiliation out of her hide. With interest.

She laughed then, a short, mocking sound. The only humour he detected was black, joyless and never something he'd dreamed of hearing escape Buffy's lips. It made her seem older, cynical.

'Broken,' the word sprang unbidden to his tongue.

"Still delusional then. Well, I guess it's good to see some things don't change," the Slayer lazily reached across the room and spun a chair in front of her, settling into it with an easy grace. Crossing her legs and resting her elbow on her knee, hand cupping her chin, she leaned forward.

"So what's a demon like you doing in a place like this?" She breathed, appraising him with a disturbingly intent look.

Spike leaned back, the spasms from her assault receding, and stretched out on the sofa, propping himself up on his arms.

"Just looking around, seeing what's on offer," he let his eyes slide over every inch of exposed flesh, trying to bait her.

"Says the vampire who's half naked," she observed, raising an eyebrow and raking her gaze across his pale chest.

Belatedly, alarm bells sounded in Spike's head. In the past his sexually predatory ways had always scattered the Slayer's composure to the winds; her current assertive attitude sounded a little too confident for his liking. The rules of the game had changed and he wondered if that was in his favour.

"I seem to recall it was you tearing my clothes off, love. Feeling a bit frustrated, are you? I'm sure I could think of a way to help you relieve some tension, if I put my...mind, to it,"

He couldn't help himself. He knew he was asking for trouble but with the memory of her tongue on his chest, scalding like holy water, he just had to push his luck.

Buffy sighed, rising from her chair and stretching her arms above her head. Spike eagerly watched her movements, noticing how the stretch revealed just a little more of her bosom above the confines of her bustier top. His fangs descended again, and he felt an answering throb from between his legs that told him he was fully recovered from her idea of a bucket of cold water. Turning her back to him she crossed the room, dainty hand grasping the doorknob, and paused for a moment, leaning against the jam.

"Much as I'm loving our little reunion, I have to get back to work. I'll ask one of the guys to get you a shirt when I go back out front. Don't come back here, Spike. There won't be a second warning."

With that, the door clicked shut and she was gone. Spike cursed and strode to the door, discovering too late that it had locked behind her. He pounded against it for a few minutes before realising it was reinforced steel. Swearing under his breath, he sat back on the couch and ran his hands through his hair, thinking.

He'd let himself get carried away, forgotten what he was here for. Forgotten Joyce as she cried on his shoulder, distraught, guilt ridden and anxious about her daughter's fate.

He remembered the first time he'd met Joyce; the night of his truce with the Slayer, when they had thrown out the hasty lie that he and Buffy were in a rock band together. The woman had been horrified at the thought. He could just imagine Joyce's face if she'd seen Buffy tonight: it would destroy her completely. And Buffy, oh gods, whatever had happened in the mansion after he'd left with Drusilla had caused this transformation. He wondered how he was going to sort this mess out. Joyce wouldn't thank him if he returned Buffy to her like this, and Buffy didn't seem to want to go anywhere.

'Thought you'd ride in on your white horse, whisk the upset and lonely princess off her feet and back into the loving arms of her family, didn't you, you ponce?' Spike thought to himself, shaking his head. Twelve decades and he was still naive, pathetic William underneath it all.

What was he, a demon, the Big Bad, doing trying to be prince charming anyway? He was evil, a killer, a feared hunter with a history so terrible they'd called him the Scourge of Europe. He slaughtered Slayers, didn't nursemaid them and bring them home to have tea with their mothers.

'But you were never enough of a monster for Drusilla,' the treacherous thought was insidious. He'd not been good enough as a human to rescue the princess, and as a demon he'd never been quite big enough or bad enough to win the girl. He was pathetic. What the hell was he doing here?

Through his frustration and annoyance he felt the bloodlust rising, the comforting white heat of his rage, causing him to lash out, shouting inarticulately as he kicked the chair she'd been sitting on across the room to break against the wall.

The door opened and a tall, muscled black guy stood impassively, holding a white t shirt and his duster.

"Beth said you needed a shirt, so here you go. Said to make sure you left, too," the man added, folding his arms as Spike relieved him of the clothes.

'Beth now, is it?' He almost snorted out loud. Suppose it made sense - yet another maiming of a perfectly good name.

"Right you are. Which way 's out from here?" He asked as he shrugged his trademark coat back onto his shoulders.

The black guy just nodded to a fire exit at the end of the hall, and Spike could feel his eyes boring into him until he was outside in the alley, the door firmly closed behind him.

"Wondered when you were going to show up," a Brooklyn accented voice said from the shadows. "I really gotta stop meeting vampires like this," it continued as a short dark haired man moved forward.

"And you would be who exactly, mate?" Spike took in the stranger, then inhaled deeply through his nose. "Or should I be asking, what?"

"Call me Whistler," his new companion introduced himself. The guy looked like a lounge lizard, the hat, the loud jacket, the dreadful trousers and loafers combination.

Spike rolled his eyes, figuring this was a local recruiting drive.

"And what do you want …Whistler?"

"Same thing you do, well, not quite, but close enough," the demon grinned.

"I'm not really in the mood for a round of 'what's my line', so can we hurry along here?" Spike's irritation was peaking again.

He was in absolutely no mood to be dealing with a local turf war tonight. All he wanted a drink, blood, and somewhere to think, well, somewhere to do other urgent things too. Whistler held his hands up, palms out.

"Whoa, there. How about we go get a drink and talk about it? I'm here for the same reason you are - to get the Slayer back."

The vampire's blue eyes narrowed, the look in them icy. "What do you know about it?"

"There's a bar just down the block. Let's go," the smaller demon led the way, not looking back to see if Spike was following.

~*~*~*~*~

They settled in a booth in the rather dingy bar Whistler had picked, a bottle of whiskey on the table between them.

"Get on with it, then," Spike growled, becoming more irate as the night moved on. Too many complications, and it seemed more were coming. He was beginning to think it would've been easier to stay with Dru.

"We've got a bit of a problem," Whistler started then broke off, choking as Spike's hand closed round his throat.

"Stop stating the bleeding obvious. First off, who's the 'we' you're talking about? Then get to the specifics about the Slayer. I've had enough thrills and spills for the kiddies this evening, and if you don't start talking sense soon, I am going to take my frustration out on the nearest available target."

Whistler coughed and tugged at the neck of his shirt as soon as Spike released him, downing his whiskey and refilling his glass.

"I'm with the good guys. You know, the Powers?" He looked up and Spike nodded curtly, watching him. "The whole Acathla thing threw us. Angelus wasn't supposed to be the one responsible for awakening him, and the prophecy screwed up. Now, the Slayer, that is, Buffy Summers, not the newly called Slayer; Buffy stopped it. But not before Angelus woke Acathla. Anyway, you know how bad things were at the end there, especially for the girl," Whistler noticed as Spike winced slightly, but wisely didn't comment.

"It doesn't help that there aren't supposed to be two active Slayers at once. But see, the problem we have now is even worse. The Seers are seeing too many corrupted timelines, too many variable futures. Prophecies are unravelling. If we can't figure out how to fix it, we might end up wishing Acathla had swallowed the world whole," Whistler finished his drink and went for a third.

"Fix what? You haven't told me what the problem is yet, you stupid wanker," Spike felt his anxiety rising, he hadn't been lying when he'd told the Slayer that he didn't want this world to go up in flames.

"You saw her tonight, Buffy, I mean?"

"Just a bit, yeah," he grinned, remembering.

"Anything seem...different, to you?"

"You mean besides the bad girl attitude and matching outfit?" Spike caustically remarked.

"Yeah, besides that. Those are just symptoms. Anything else?" Whistler watched the vampire in front of him closely as he looked at the table, avoiding the smaller demon's eyes.

"Well, she...flirted with me. Unheard of. Not unexpected, but not like her at all," Spike confessed, his ego swelling with the memory.

"So what you're saying is that the Slayer ran into you in a bar, knew you for a soulless evil vampire, and not only didn't stake you but flirted heavily?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Spot the glaring change?" Whistler pushed, resisting the urge to shake the blond.

"Still having trouble getting past the outfit, personally. You should have seen her," Spike chuckled.

"The Vampire Slayer didn't stake you. Didn't threaten to stake you. Didn't try to perform her sacred duty, and you, as a vampire, don't think this is unusual? I'm wondering how you survived this long, frankly," Whistler shook his head in dismay.

Spike bristled at his companion's comment, then his eyes widened and he slapped his forehead.

"Bloody hell. I'm really not on the ball, am I?"

"Thought had crossed my mind," Whistler muttered.

"Hey watch it, I heard that," Spike shot him a withering glance. "So the Slayer's just not doing her job? Can't be that much of a big deal, you just said there's another one."

"Yes, there is another Slayer. That's not the point. If it was a simple question of Buffy Summers retiring there wouldn't be all this collateral damage. There's something else, and we're not entirely sure what it is. We've got a hunch, though."

"And? The tension 's killing me. You ever watch soap operas?"

"Not if I can help it. We think she's a demon," Whistler polished off the last of the alcohol. "I really wish I could get drunk," he sighed regretfully.

Spike hastily swallowed the mouthful of amber liquid he'd taken; loathe to waste a drop but close to thoroughly spraying Whistler in his disbelief.

"What?" he exclaimed.

"That's our best guess. We're in uncharted territory on this one. Slayers have been turned in the past but a simple vamping's never caused anything like this, 'cause the next Slayer gets called and that's generally the end of it. The process of being turned into a vampire isn't like the resurrection that happened when Buffy drowned - it's just death. This time, it looks like all hell is going to break loose. And believe me when I say I mean that literally."

"No, hold up, no way she was a vampire. I hate to point this out, but she had a pulse and body heat. Lots of body heat," he shivered.

"Like I say, we don't know what she is. We think she's been elevated, but we're not sure."

"Sounds to me like you don't know much, mate. Aren't the Powers supposed to be all knowing and the like?" Spike pointed out. He had a nagging feeling he was about to get saddled with more responsibility than he was prepared to shoulder.

"It's not that easy, and if we knew how it was all going to turn out there wouldn't be much point to life, would there? But I'm not here to get dragged into Philosophy for Dummies. You've been tagged for this one, buddy."

Spike leaned close, blue eyes flickering to amber.

"Think you've forgotten something important, mate," he growled. "Evil vampire, not a bleeding white hat."

"Uh huh. That's why you're here in LA, looking for our wandering heroine. Cause you're all evil. Right," Whistler raised his eyebrows, refusing to be intimidated by the temperamental demon in front of him.

"Let me put it this way: like it or not, you've been selected as a player. What you do about it is up to you. It's always up to you, in the end. Your choices, your actions. One of the big secrets of the universe, so don't say I didn't tell you nothin', alright?"

Whistler slid from the booth and walked out of the bar. Spike got to his feet and pursued him, but outside the bar there was no sign of the badly dressed messenger. Shrugging his shoulders Spike figured he might as well finish the bottle he'd left on the table.