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One Day.... by Lilachigh
 
Chp 2 Lost Sheep
 
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One Day…

Chp 2

Lost Sheep


The little room leading off Xander’s basement was bleak at the best of times. It stank of socks, cheap after-shave and – well, Spike knew that third smell only too well and it wasn’t chestnuts roasting by an open fire!

He lay on the bed in the dark and scowled up at the ceiling. The door was ajar and the crack of brightness coming through was flashing red and green from the lights Xander had strung round his bed. Bloody Christmas! Spike hated it. He’d always hated it. Stupid carols, tinsel, giving presents to people who couldn’t care less about you even if you loved and desired them.

Sodding Thanksgiving Day had been bad enough, what with being attacked by Indians and spending days tied up in Giles’ bath! But at least there had been people around, noise, chat – even being called an evil waste of space was, well, sort of comforting. Made him feel almost normal again. If he was honest, which he admitted was not one of his foremost virtues, he’d been on his last legs when the Slayer and her gang of idiots had taken him in and fed him.

But now it was Christmas Day. He’d been told to stay here. On no account was he to leave the basement – that had been Buffy’s last Christmas message to him. Yeah, full of good cheer that bint was!

Spike tapped his boots together, beating out a rhythm of anger. He’d sort of thought he and the Whelp might have a Christmas drink together. Not that he could stand Xander, but the booze tasted the same whoever you drank it with.

But Xander had left his parents getting steadily sloshed upstairs and fled to his beloved Buffy’s house. Even Willow had apparently decided that being Jewish was no real excuse not to join them for videos and popcorn.

“I bet Wanker Giles will be there as well,” Spike thought viciously. “Doing the big English gent thing for Joyce. Bet he takes her flowers. Shop bought, wrapped in cellophane. She’ll hate them! Joyce is a wild flowers sort of woman. Like her daughter….”

Not that Spike wanted anything to do with any of them, of course. The less he saw of the Slayer and her Watcher the better. It was, of course, the chip in his head that was making him feel miserable. Big Bads didn’t do miserable. They didn’t feel sorry for themselves or wonder what the future held in store for a vampire who couldn’t kill or feed.

He swung his feet off the bed and sat, head buried in his hands, his fingers searching under the bleached curls for an outline, a roughness of the skin, anything to tell him where the chip was. But there was nothing. It had been buried too deep in his brain.

With a growl, he flung himself out of the room, crashed up the basement stairs and out into the night. If he thought about it any more, he’d go mad. God, he needed a drink.

He hadn’t meant to go anywhere near Ravello Drive, but it was on his way to Willie’s Bar. Well, if you walked the long way round town it was but he reasoned, he needed the exercise, needed to keep in fighting trim in case he found a way to get the chip out.

Little flickers of white sparkled around the porch. Spike sidled up to the house and peered through the window. He could see his mortal enemies laughing, talking, unwrapping gifts. Well, that was one good reason not to knock on the door - not that he’d been going to, of course. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d given anyone a Christmas present and he wasn’t going to start now.

He wandered round to the back garden – grass and trees and bushes - it was a garden and he had no idea why they insisted on calling it a yard.
He wasn’t sure why he was hanging around except that it was always useful to check out your enemy’s home ground. Mark out places where you could lie in wait, ambush her unexpectedly, make her see –

He drew back into the shadows as the door opened and Buffy appeared. “Spike? I know you’re out there! I can sense you, stupid vamp. Look, go back to Xander’s. I told you to stay there. I haven’t got time to chase you round Sunnydale. Not today! It’s Christmas.” And she flounced back inside and slammed the door.

Spike fought back an overwhelming urge to rush forward, smash down the door and kill everyone inside. The chip fired briefly and he clutched his head. “Sodding hell! Can’t I even think of killing her?” But regardless of the pain it would still be worth it. Except – it would ruin her Christmas Day and somehow he couldn’t do that, even to the Slayer.

Slouching away through streets that were as empty as he was, he quickened his pace as he passed the church. He could hear carols playing, people singing. Nice warm, juicy people who were completely safe tonight. It was so unfair. He didn’t even have enough money to buy pig’s blood. He’d go hungry until Xander came home and even then it would be some stale cold pizza thrown in his direction. He might even starve to death before then.

He stumbled slightly to avoid a bloody great wooden display some wanker had left on the pavement which he refused to call a sidewalk, even in his mind. He thrust out a hand to stop himself falling and felt it disappear into hay that felt warm on his cold fingers.

Looking down, he realised he was staring at the Nativity Scene, his hand was curled round the manger. He started to pulled it away. Not a cross, of course, but there was a tingling on his skin he didn’t like – not one bit.

He gazed down at the stupid china doll lying in the hay. Donkeys, sodding shepherds, old geezers carrying presents…..the one on the end nearest the baby was holding four dollars in a little pile in his hands….

Afterwards Spike always swore to himself that he’d robbed the crib, that hey, he was evil personified, chip or no chip. But in the dead of the night, his stomach warmed by the blood the money bought, he knew the coins had fallen into his hand of their own accord.

It was the first present he could remember anyone giving him for a very long time and for some stupid reason, which he was certain was to do with the chip, he kept recalling another church, a bitterly cold day, his mother sitting at his side, coughing gently and the droning voice of a parson saying,

“If a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray? ?And if so be that he find it, verily I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep, than of the ninety and nine which went not astray.”

tbc
 
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