a/n – Thank you to all the kind people who gave me an encouraging start with their reviews.  I’m thrilled that my little contribution has been so well received thus far.  This chapter’s a short one, but necessary to setting the scene.  Please, be patient, it’s going to be a couple of chapters before our beloved characters actually meet up.  Hopefully, it’ll be a fun ride, though.

As always, thanks go to my beta, Spikez_tart.

**hugs** sfg

Who Am I

 

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Chapter 2 - Payday


The back alley’s underlying stench of garbage and old blood was covered by the reek of the pulser’s piss and fear.  Spike grinned around his fangs, holding the college boy loosely, one hand around his throat, his other flicking open the proffered wallet.  Nimble fingers extracted the pissant’s wad of cash. 


Lucky me, must be payday .  Spike's lips curved in a wicked grin that he knew, from experience, was terrifying to behold.  When he leaned in and pinned the boy with his amber eyes, he wasn’t surprised by the fresh scent of piss that was added to the already reeking alley. 


Amused, yes.  Surprised, no.


He took a small, but dramatic sniff, wrinkling his nose in disgust.  He savored the look of wide-eyed terror that crossed the wanker’s face, then slapped the now-empty billfold against his captive’s chest.  Keeping his voice low and rough, he growled.


“Run .”

 
The daft mark didn’t need to be told twice and he skittered out of the dark alley.

 
Spike shifted out of game face and laughed as he counted the dosh and stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans, adjusting himself in the process.  Reaching into the pocket of his duster, he leaned a shoulder against the brick wall, pulled out a cigarette and lit it.  Drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, he replayed the scene, including the hilarious image of the yuppie punk, still wet with his own piss, tripping over his feet to get away.

 
His delight was short lived, though. 

 
God, could he sink any lower?  He was one-quarter of the Scourge of Europe .  The vamp who earned the right to be called Spike – rather spectacularly, if he did say so himself.  The youngest vampire to be elevated to the ranks of Master in hundreds of years. 

 
William the Fucking Bloody – Slayer of Slayers.

 
Yet, here he stood, in a stinking alley, behind a teeny bopper dance club with the scent of fear ripe in the air, a grumbling stomach and not a corpse in sight.

 
And his demon was amused by how the night turned out. 

 
It shouldn’t have been satisfied with anything less then ripping out the blighter’s entrails and draping them, like party streamers, from the broken lampposts.  Instead, it copped some sort of twisted enjoyment out of scaring the kid and walking away with his cash without even drawing a drop of blood.

 
It was pathetic.

 
Spike turned his attention to the back door of The Bronze.  Even through the closed door, the music thumped its sensual rhythm, calling the young ones to move their bodies.  He drew a deep breath and held it, his vamp senses shuffling through the layers of scents, tossing out the nasties.  When he caught the vague taste of sweat and arousal that leaked out from around the jamb, dark memories flooded through him. 

 
All he had to do was open that door and he’d be swimming in the most intoxicating, mouth-watering scents, not to mention the pulses that would thunder along with the music, promising a succulence that Spike could no longer partake in.

 
Walking in there should have sent his demon into a rage of howling need.  Instead, the aromatic smorgasbord just gave him a buzz, which was why he had taken to doing his drinking, of the alcoholic kind anyway, here, instead of Willy’s.

 
Here, where he was an outsider, not being human and all. 

 
Here, where, even though she’d scaled back her visits because of the newness of college life, he might catch a glimpse of ... no .  He didn’t come here for that.  He came for the booze.  For the booze and the cash-carrying wankers like that dolt in the alley.  After all, that cash bought his booze and kept him in blood and smokes. 

 
Not to mention - scaring loafer-boys?  Fun!

 
The only thing that seemed to get his demon thinking bloodlust these days was the Slayer.  And, as disturbing as it was, his dreams weren’t sticking to the whole ‘drain her dry, notch up another Slayer’ theme.  No.  They were sick.  Sick, perverted filth, not fit to even verbalize.

 
What demon, vamp especially, dreams about kissing the damn Slayer?!  ‘Bout pressing his cool lips against soft, warm, strawberry glossed Buffy-lips?  ‘Bout having her tiny frame, radiating heat like a furnace, pressed right into his lap?

 
It was wrong!  It was disgusting!  

 
It was hotter than hell.

 
And, it was all the soddin’ Slayer’s fault!  If he’d never met her, he’d never have met Red.  Red never would have worked the damn mojo that made him propose to the bint and the slayer never would’ve kissed him.  If she hadn’t kissed him he wouldn’t have felt – no !  He hadn’t felt anything.  Just lust.  That’s all. 

 
Or, maybe this was Dru’s fault?  Yeah.  If she hadn’t spouted off some nonsense about him being covered in the Slayer and run off with that Chaos demon -- no.  Dru was a nutter.  She had been, for all the years he’d known her.  It wasn’t her fault, not his ripe wicked plum. 

 
If anyone was to blame, it was Angelus, for tormenting Dru into madness.  Yeah, that’s it.  Angelus’ fault, all of it. 

 
‘Cept Angelus had gotten slapped in an Angel-cage.  Well, at least until the Slayer let him pop her cherry. 

 
And there it was, full circle.  All that bint’s fault, just like he said. 

 
Her fault he’d been unable to kill his third Slayer.  Her fault ‘Daddy’ showed up after more than a hundred years and took advantage of his weakened state.  Which was also her damn fault, dropping that damn organ on him.  Her fault that he’d had to make a truce with her to save the soddin’ world, which made Dru doubt him.  Her fault he lost the Gem of Amarra, which made him vulnerable to the soldier boys and cost him his ability to feed on humans like a right proper demon, instead of on pig’s swill.  And, her fault that he was tormented by repulsive dreams of kissing his mortal enemy. 

 
Dreams that just happened to make him hard as granite.  Every.  Damn.  Time .

 
Not for the first time he wondered why the hell his demon was okay with this.

 
Alright, mate.  Enough bloody introspection.  Time to apply liberal doses of alcohol.

 
Striding forward, he yanked open the door and slid into the comforting scents and sounds of a demon’s feeding ground.

 
tbc