((This section was written well into the series.))
DAYS OF OUR UNLIVES: How It All Began
Part Ten: Unexpected Visitor
***
Sometime after three a.m., the car screeches up to the curb and Cordelia deposits me somewhat ungraciously in front of my apartment.
"That's it," she snaps. "I'm getting caller I.D. And this is the *last* time I take a phone call from you after midnight."
"Cordelia," Wesley pipes up sleepily from the backseat, "mutant demon species are not normally known for keeping regular business hours-"
"That's *his* job!" she retorts. "Mr. Nocturnal Vampire Guy! This is *not* in my job description. I type, I file-"
"And you're so good at it," I mutter sarcastically, pushing the door open.
"Oh, just get out," she says impatiently. "Get out before you drip any more slime on my would-be-leather-if-you-paid-me-an-actual-salary interior."
I struggle to retain my human visage as I get out of the car, reminding myself that Cordelia will be back to her normal, quasi-cheerful self after she gets her nightly quota of eleven hours of sleep.
I trod into the apartment, kicking my shoes off at the doorway in a futile attempt to keep demon-slime off my immaculate carpet. I'm tired, sore, filthy, and hungry. I should really remember to eat before I go out. These late-night romps with my associates get me so aggravated that one of these nights I'm liable to have Cordelia as a midnight snack.
I snatch a bag out of the refrigerator and down its frigid contents on my way to the shower. That's right, it's cold. Cold, clammy, gross, disgusting and I don't even care. I just wanna get a shower and go to bed.
I peel off my slime-encrusted garments
and toss them into the hamper, grateful for once that I can't see my reflection
in the bathroom mirror. I don't even *want* to know what my hair looks
like right now. I step into the shower and turn on the water
as hot as I can stand it (considering
my stint in Hell, that's pretty damn hot). Mmm. Water. Steam. The massaging
pressure of droplets against my skin. The aroma of soap and shampoo. Wonderful
and relaxing and-
Crash. Bang. "Bloody hell!"
What the fuck?
I groan and bang my head once against the side of the shower stall. What now? What new evil disaster is interrupting my chances of having a nice, relaxing evening? Why can't I ever just get a shower and go to bed? Is that too much to ask?
Something inside me cries out in protest. No! I'm not going anywhere! I don't care if mutant demon fish are invading my apartment, I'm not leaving this shower until I've gotten all the slime out of my hair!
But considering the nature of my career, and my life, and Fate in general, I realize that there very well could be mutant demon fish and I really can't justify showering at a time like this.
Of course, mutant demon fish usually aren't given to saying "bloody hell," and I could have sworn-
No.
There's only one person I know that uses that expression and... just... no.
I turn off the water, dry off quickly, and pull on my robe, running into my living room to seek out the intruder. Please, God, let it be demon fish. Let it be minions of Hell. Let it be anything in this world or the next as long as it's not-
Spike.
I recognize him immediately, of course. The creak of leather, the stench of alcohol and tobacco, the shock of platinum hair. All the same, my mouth, completely independent of my brain, gasps out the query: "*Spike*?"
He cocks one scarred eyebrow at me and removes the smoldering cigarette from the corner of his mouth just long enough to take a swallow from the whiskey bottle that dangles from his black-polished fingertips. "Very observant, mate," he quips sarcastically, swaying uncertainly on his feet. "You getting forgetful in your old age?"
***
The room's tilted. Not really spinning, not yet, but that's okay, the night's far from over. I look up at Angel and squint slightly. "There's four of you," and to my own ears it sounds like the most complex observation ever made. "No, wait, there's only three." I shrug and raise the bottle again. "Ah well, fuck it."
"You're drunk," he says.
I roll my eyes and take a gulp of whiskey. He hasn't lost his ability to state the obvious. He is, however, conspicuously underdressed, and there's something in his hair that looks like-
"Is that demon slime?" I ask, reaching in my pocket for a cigarette and jumping when I notice the still-smoldering one already in my hand.
He points to a leather chair. "Sit. Now. *Don't move.*"
"Sir, yes, sir." I attempt to give him a salute and end up stumbling backwards into the chair. But that's all right 'cause it's nice and soft and comfy. Now all I need's my whiskey- where is- ?- no, that's the cigarette-hand. This other one, over on this side, that's the whiskey-hand. Ahhh. Nice and dark and quiet and-
"Spike!"
Where the hell did he come from? And dressed too. When did that happen?
"What are you doing here?" he asks, sitting across from me and buttoning his shirtcuffs.
His hair's all wet. Spiky and ungelled and sticking up in all random directions. With demon-slime still smeared at his temples. I start giggling uncontrollably and I can't stop.
He growls out some odd sound that may or may not be my name. "What's that, mate?" I ask, recovering from my spontaneous amusement and taking a drag of my cigarette.
"Why. Are. You. Here?"
I hold the bottle out to him. "This," I say solemnly, "will give you all the answers you will ever need."
He raises an eyebrow and looks at the bottle with distaste. "Will it tell me why you're here?"
"No," I say, dissolving into giggles again, "but if you drink enough of it, you won't care why you're here, either." I raise the bottle again and am shocked by a terrible burning pain on my lip. Damn. I've gotta figure out which one's the cigarette-hand.
He reaches out and plucks both cigarette and whiskey from my hands. "Oi," I yell indignantly. "Give it here."
"Not until you tell me why you're here."
"Why are any of us here?" I reply, embellishing my speech with extravagant gestures. "I mean, really, Peaches, in the grand scheme of things-"
My poetic waxing is checked with a slap on the cheek. "Talk."
***
He won't talk.
All right, that's not necessarily true. He won't shut up. But he still won't tell me what the fuck he's doing at my apartment, drunk, at four o'clock in the morning. And, truth be told, I'm past caring. I just want Spike to pass out so I can go to bed.
He doesn't seem to see things that way. He's got a lot to say and most of it revolves around the subject of drinking. Namely, of my drinking with him.
I have no desire to see the result
of an inebriated me and an inebriated him in one relatively small room
together, especially when he's maudlin and I'm already relatively pissed
off and there are breakable objects. It's a disaster waiting to happen
and I
want nothing to do with it. Even
when he looks at me in that way that makes his eyes sparkle. Even when
he gives me that wry grin.
"Yer not man enough, are ya?" he quips. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen."
I ignore him resolutely.
"Sad to see," he murmurs with mock regret. "Time was you could have matched me drink for drink..."
"Is that a challenge?" I growl.
A careless shrug is my only answer.
I shouldn't do this. Bad things when I get intoxicated. I have a tendency to frighten television actresses or let blonde women bite me in the neck. Hell, now that I come to think of it, I seem to recall being drunk off my ass the night I turned Spike. But he was so young and attractive and edible, and his skin was so warm against the cool London air as I said "how do you feel about immortality, boy?" and he shrugged gracefully, lit a cigarette and said "why the hell not?" and, damn it, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Which indicates to me, more than anything else, that a persuasive William the Bloody and a drunken Angelus are a *bad* combination.
But I am his Sire. I am the Scourge of Europe. I am nearly twice his age. And I'm Irish, goddamnit. I could drink this whelp under the table any day of the week.
There's a knowing glimmer in his eye as he holds the bottle out to me. Idiot Childe, I bet that smartass expression will be gone when you're so drunk you-
Memories spring to my mind suddenly, Dionysian nights across Asia and Europe, a sable-haired Spike that sang off-key drinking songs, crashed into furniture, and vomited blood and brandy all over expensive Persian carpets. Perhaps encouraging Spike to drink more isn't such a good idea.
But it's too late because I've already accepted the proffered bottle and I'm already downing the vodka in burning swallows and I hope to God that this all makes a little more sense in the morning.
Thus it begins.