Compatible Faults 6
Blech. Not entirely happy with this chapter. Things go badly for Spikey. Angel behaves like a twat.
Previous Parts in Memories
Chapter Six: Damage
“What are you doing here?”
Of all the voices, and the timing. Spike pulled a breath into his painfully compressed lungs. “Thought I’d see what it’s like to bounce off the pavement.” He picked himself up and sneered at Angel. “Pretty much what I expected.”
“You should stay out of this. Tactical is on its way.”
“Oh, right. She’ll hang around until they show up.”
“You should have waited.” Angel was as stiff as ever, managing to loom from a distance, hands in his coat pockets.
Spike peered up at the sky, expecting the Angel-copter to descend. “Which was working so well for you. ‘Sides, now I know what we’re dealing with. Some sort of Chinese demon. Maybe a water dragon?”
Angel rolled his eyes and walked off.
“What? It was shoutin’ Chinese. Know what that sounds like, don’t I?”
Angel spun on his heel just long enough to say, “She’s a slayer,” and continued his walk.
“A wot??”
“Slayer. Of vampires. She was called with the others when Willow did her spell, only this girl was already insane. She probably can’t separate the memories of previous slayers from her own experiences.”
Spike stopped. “A psycho slayer?”
Angel sighed, much put-upon and turned to face him. “Are you coming or not?”
“Where?”
“Home. Where we can use a million dollars of equipment to track her, formulate a logical plan instead of rushing off half-cocked.”
“I got a place, thanks. Still having me followed, Peaches?”
Angel looked away, jaw tight. “No. I told them not to follow you anymore. I respect your privacy.”
“That’s cute, that is.”
Angel turned with a flap of leather coat. “Come if you want. Giles is sending his top man to meet with us.”
***
Angel watched from across the room with increased distress as Andrew hugged Spike with undue familiarity.
“It's you. It's really you! My therapist thought I was holding onto false hope, but... I knew you'd come back. You're like... you're like Gandalf the White, resurrected from the pit of the Balrog, more beautiful than ever. Ohh... he's alive, Frodo. He's alive.”
Spike’s grimace at Andrew’s awkward behavior became a slight smirk as he saw Angel grinding his teeth and looking likely to rip the little ponce off of him.
Spike patted Andrew’s back a little more fondly than he would otherwise. “Ease up there, Samwise. Got a slayer to catch, remember?”
Lorne cleared his throat and leaned toward his boss. “Angelcakes! You’re making me look pink.” At Angel’s confused frown, he sighed, “You’re so green. How about toning down that aura just a tad?”
“Green? I…” Angel shook his head, “Pfft. I’m not… green.”
“Sure, sugerlump, and neither am I.” Lorne raised both eyebrows meaningfully before resuming his seat at the conference table.
“I have nothing to be green about!”
“Oh, honeybun, the minute you stop repressing…”
Angel glared at the anagogic demon until someone cleared their throat.
***
“Spike! Stop right there, this isn’t a joke.” Angel stormed out of the conference room after Spike.
“Oh it’s a joke all right, it’s bleedin’ marvelous, and you’re the punch line. You lot standing around discussing strategy while a barmy slayer cuts her way through LA.”
“You’re only going to get yourself slain.”
“Almost had her even when I didn’t know what she was. I killed two slayers with my own hands, remember? Think I can capture one who’s off her nut. Hell, had to catch Dru a time or two when she went on a bender.”
Angel interposed himself between Spike and the exit. His face was all narrow, horizontal lines: brow, eyes, lips. “You’re delusional. You’re not that strong, that quick, and you sure as hell aren’t half that clever.”
“Least I’m not jealous of soddin’ ANDREW.”
“What?”
“You were about to rip the poor tyke’s head off.” Spike rocked on the balls of his feet. “Talk about delusional. But ta. It’s fun to be on the other side of the unrequited bit for a change.” He tossed a salute at Angel’s dumbfounded frown. “See you after I’ve caught your slayer, peaches.” He sauntered down the corridor and out of the building.
Angel turned and gasped in shock to find Lorne at his elbow. “Good, good, give him a little head start, let him feel he’s being chased.”
“Lorne! I am not chasing after SPIKE. He can go get himself killed. It would be a relief.”
Lorne, who had been leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially, straightened with a sigh. “You are beyond help, cream puff.”
“And please stop calling me desserts,” Angel went back into the meeting room, where Gunn and Andrew were still arguing strategy and Star Wars trivia, seamlessly, following segues understood only to them.
***
Lindsey hit the nearest discount store (Mark’s Big Lots) and returned with a modest set of stoneware (cups, bowls and plates), fluffy towels in the manliest color available (dark green) and a bright red tea kettle.
British dudes liked tea, right?
Lindsey sat on the couch staring at the tea kettle where it sat on the back burner of the ancient four-burner stove, accusing him of nesting.
It was just a god-damned kettle, an aisle-end display impulse buy. A couple towels. Bare essentials. Shouldn’t he make his champion’s home… homey?
Lindsey stuffed the kettle far back in one of the cabinets where it couldn’t stare at him anymore and went out for beer and pizza. Leaving a mess around made him feel he’d re-asserted his manliness.
And he wasn’t waiting up. Hell no. He just had an investment, here. He had to confirm that everything went well with the mission. That was all. That was IT.
His cell rang and he almost upset the TV on its little table jumping up to grab it. “Eve?”
“No, the boogieman. We’ve run into a snag, ‘Doyle’. Spike was just here. Meeting with Angel. Going to Angel for help. Do you see the problem with this?”
Lindsey paced. “No, doesn’t make sense. Spike wouldn’t go to Angel. That’d be the last person he’d want help from.”
“I hope he’s a good lay, hon, because he’s crap for a champion.”
Lindsey stopped dead. “He’s a vampire with a soul. You want to find another one?”
“He got his ass handed to him. Turns out this crazy chick is a vampire slayer. The council of watchers sent some Alistair Cook wannabe.” There was a soft sound as Eve switched which ear she pressed to her phone. “Creepy little dweeb. Anyway, I’m reviewing the security cam footage now, but I’m thinking we may have to abandon this one. Pull Spike out, wait for an easier case.”
Lindsey sat on the arm of the couch. “He’s the slayer of slayers, Eve. This isn’t a set-back, it’s a god-damned opportunity. You wait and see, he’ll wrap up that little darlin’ and leave Angel holding her purse.”
“Wow. Your confidence in a guy really goes up after a screw. He must be pretty good after all.”
“I’m not thinking with my dick, here. I’m talking about his history. What I’ve read. Spike’s the only vampire ever to purposefully seek out a slayer, twice, and win. Angel’s never defeated a vampire slayer. Spike has. That’s all I need to know to place my bet.”
There was a small pause. “Hope you’re right, babe. Keep your line open. I’ll call with an update soon as I can.”
Lindsey tossed the closed cell phone from hand to hand. He was right. He had to be right.
He crossed to the kitchen counter and got the red teakettle out again.
***
He is at the mercy of a vampire slayer. That’s not new. His mind is befuddled, the world moving strangely around him, like molasses pouring from a teaspoon. He feels the pain, jagged and fast and burning, all the same, but he can’t move away from it, his body doesn’t quite listen to him anymore, and now he looks down and doesn’t have hands.
It’s not fair, he wants to say. I was going to use my hands. I was going to make good things. Save. Protect. I was going to…
But it is fair, all told. He isn’t the one she wanted. That’s not new. But he is guilty.
He realizes how much he’s been keeping busy, keeping moving, keeping himself from feeling the guilt. Holding his persona together like a bouquet of paper flowers in a driving rain. But now he’s got no hands and he sees it falling apart, false to start with and useless. Just wet paper, after all.
That’s new.
***
Spike lay in a hospital bed, in a small glass-walled cubicle in the medical wing of Wofram and Hart. Angel had a medical staff. Who knew?
Spike didn’t look as bad as he had, chained to that post. Angel repeated that to himself. Seeing Spike handless… it was horrible. It made his stomach tighten into a hard knot. Like watching Darla crumble into dust. Both times.
He didn’t want to have to see anything like that again. It was hard enough just seeing Spike so… corpse-like, lying surrounded by muted hospital greens like a dried lily. At least his hands were attached, now. Angel paced, his own hands balled in his pants pockets, pretending that HOPING real hard helped.
Spike stirred. An orderly responded instantly, coming in to help the vampire sit up. “Don’t try to move your arms,” she said.
Angel felt suddenly like a peeping tom. He hurried away, chewing his lip.
Hello, class four brood, he thought wryly, kicking the hall door open just because he wanted to cause a little violence.
***
“The drugs will wear off soon. Is there anything I can get for you?”
“Is there a phone?” Spike looked down at his fingers, and chuckled. “Suppose you’ll have to dial for me, love.”
“Of course, sir.” The nurse brought an old beige office phone close to the bed and held the receiver to his ear while he dictated the number Doyle had given him to call in emergencies.
“Who is this?”
Spike blinked, almost pulling back from the phone. “You always answer the phone so charmingly, Doyle?”
In the dank little apartment, lit only by the television, Lindsey jumped up from the couch, beer cans falling from his lap. “Spike. Shit, where the hell are you?”
“Wolfram and bloody Hart, if you can believe it. Medical wing. It’s a long story.”
Lindsey lost his breath. The beer cans clunked together by his feet, tuneless bells. His mind refused to supply a proper exit strategy. Spike had called him from Wolfram and Hart, where Angel could be listening in, recognizing his voice… “Never call this number again,” he snapped, and disconnected the call.
He paced, kicking the cans as far as he could. He hurriedly dialed Eve.
Spike craned his neck away from the phone. “Hang it up, love. Thanks.”
The nurse did so, a plastic sound and then the squeak of moving the side-table away from the bed again. She left without another word.
***
“This makes me feel special, mate. You brooding over me.”
Angel shifted in his seat. “This isn’t brooding. I’m… waiting. We need the hospital bed cleared. This is costing me a fortune.”
“Aw, peaches, you do care.”
“I don’t. Fred insisted we patch you up. I wanted to leave you.”
“Right. You’ve been sitting there four hours because you don’t give a rat’s ass.”
One corner of Angel’s mouth lifted. “Maybe I just like seeing you in pain.”
There was a long silence. Angel continued to look at his own hands, hanging between his knees.
Spike couldn’t take the silence. It was always a contest he’d lose. “You made me feel special, once. Like I was important to you. Don’t know if that was your intention, but there it was, a whole day and night of Angelus’ attention. And I woke up feeling this is it, right? This is the day everything changes. ‘Cept, of course, nothing changed. Do you remember that morning, Angelus? First words you spoke to me were ‘Where are my boots?’”
“No,” Angel said. “I don’t remember. It wasn’t an important day for me.”
“You made that clear at the time.”
“You were nothing to me.” Angel said. “My legacy was Drusilla. My loyal student was Penn. You? You were the stray that followed my girl home one day. You want to bring up that one day? One day in decades? Fine. I was bored. You were easy. So this… jealousy and concern you think you see in me, it’s not there. I feel nothing for you but annoyance.”
Spike’s face was unreadable. “I’m all you have left.”
Angel stood. “You’re not. You aren’t even mine. Stop being here. Stop following me.”
“I’m not…” Spike sat up, wincing as his hands took a little of his weight by accident. Angel was already out the door, his coat flapping behind him as he hurried past the windowed wall. Spike yearned for the strength to make a rude gesture. “Not following you.”
***
Angel didn’t come back to visit him. No one did, aside from a quick stop by Fred. The doctors informed him it was time to go and he was let out of the building alone.
Lindsey wasn’t there when Spike returned to the apartment. The only evidence of his presence was a pizza box and some empty beer cans.
Spike dropped his bag from the medical people - two pints of donor blood, a plastic cup, and those stupid slipper-socks with the rubber lines on the bottoms. He used the side of his thumb to push the lid up on the pizza box. Empty. Wanker.
The docs said not to push it with his hands. Not to try and lift anything heavy. Not to go fighting demons for a week, at least. Tossers.
He flexed his fingers again, feeling each tendon strain in turn like a badly-stretched wire. The digits were moving, at least, but sluggishly, jerkily, like they were frozen.
He sat down, mostly using the sides of his hands to move the chair out. It was dark, but he didn’t feel like turning the light on. He could hear the skitter of the roaches along the baseboards and the steady roll of cars going by on the street outside.
He knew why Angel was so sore, but what had he done to Doyle?
Spike peered into the pizza box one more time, just to see if there wasn’t some crust he’d missed. Smelled like it had been a supreme, too.
Petty. The world could be ending and Spike was thinking about pizza. He pushed the box away from him and it tipped off the other side of the card table. He sighed, sitting alone in his chair.
He deserved this. Loneliness. He deserved it and worse.
It was a long time before he got up, put the blood in the fridge and went to bed.
Continued!
Previous Parts in Memories
Chapter Six: Damage
“What are you doing here?”
Of all the voices, and the timing. Spike pulled a breath into his painfully compressed lungs. “Thought I’d see what it’s like to bounce off the pavement.” He picked himself up and sneered at Angel. “Pretty much what I expected.”
“You should stay out of this. Tactical is on its way.”
“Oh, right. She’ll hang around until they show up.”
“You should have waited.” Angel was as stiff as ever, managing to loom from a distance, hands in his coat pockets.
Spike peered up at the sky, expecting the Angel-copter to descend. “Which was working so well for you. ‘Sides, now I know what we’re dealing with. Some sort of Chinese demon. Maybe a water dragon?”
Angel rolled his eyes and walked off.
“What? It was shoutin’ Chinese. Know what that sounds like, don’t I?”
Angel spun on his heel just long enough to say, “She’s a slayer,” and continued his walk.
“A wot??”
“Slayer. Of vampires. She was called with the others when Willow did her spell, only this girl was already insane. She probably can’t separate the memories of previous slayers from her own experiences.”
Spike stopped. “A psycho slayer?”
Angel sighed, much put-upon and turned to face him. “Are you coming or not?”
“Where?”
“Home. Where we can use a million dollars of equipment to track her, formulate a logical plan instead of rushing off half-cocked.”
“I got a place, thanks. Still having me followed, Peaches?”
Angel looked away, jaw tight. “No. I told them not to follow you anymore. I respect your privacy.”
“That’s cute, that is.”
Angel turned with a flap of leather coat. “Come if you want. Giles is sending his top man to meet with us.”
***
Angel watched from across the room with increased distress as Andrew hugged Spike with undue familiarity.
“It's you. It's really you! My therapist thought I was holding onto false hope, but... I knew you'd come back. You're like... you're like Gandalf the White, resurrected from the pit of the Balrog, more beautiful than ever. Ohh... he's alive, Frodo. He's alive.”
Spike’s grimace at Andrew’s awkward behavior became a slight smirk as he saw Angel grinding his teeth and looking likely to rip the little ponce off of him.
Spike patted Andrew’s back a little more fondly than he would otherwise. “Ease up there, Samwise. Got a slayer to catch, remember?”
Lorne cleared his throat and leaned toward his boss. “Angelcakes! You’re making me look pink.” At Angel’s confused frown, he sighed, “You’re so green. How about toning down that aura just a tad?”
“Green? I…” Angel shook his head, “Pfft. I’m not… green.”
“Sure, sugerlump, and neither am I.” Lorne raised both eyebrows meaningfully before resuming his seat at the conference table.
“I have nothing to be green about!”
“Oh, honeybun, the minute you stop repressing…”
Angel glared at the anagogic demon until someone cleared their throat.
***
“Spike! Stop right there, this isn’t a joke.” Angel stormed out of the conference room after Spike.
“Oh it’s a joke all right, it’s bleedin’ marvelous, and you’re the punch line. You lot standing around discussing strategy while a barmy slayer cuts her way through LA.”
“You’re only going to get yourself slain.”
“Almost had her even when I didn’t know what she was. I killed two slayers with my own hands, remember? Think I can capture one who’s off her nut. Hell, had to catch Dru a time or two when she went on a bender.”
Angel interposed himself between Spike and the exit. His face was all narrow, horizontal lines: brow, eyes, lips. “You’re delusional. You’re not that strong, that quick, and you sure as hell aren’t half that clever.”
“Least I’m not jealous of soddin’ ANDREW.”
“What?”
“You were about to rip the poor tyke’s head off.” Spike rocked on the balls of his feet. “Talk about delusional. But ta. It’s fun to be on the other side of the unrequited bit for a change.” He tossed a salute at Angel’s dumbfounded frown. “See you after I’ve caught your slayer, peaches.” He sauntered down the corridor and out of the building.
Angel turned and gasped in shock to find Lorne at his elbow. “Good, good, give him a little head start, let him feel he’s being chased.”
“Lorne! I am not chasing after SPIKE. He can go get himself killed. It would be a relief.”
Lorne, who had been leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially, straightened with a sigh. “You are beyond help, cream puff.”
“And please stop calling me desserts,” Angel went back into the meeting room, where Gunn and Andrew were still arguing strategy and Star Wars trivia, seamlessly, following segues understood only to them.
***
Lindsey hit the nearest discount store (Mark’s Big Lots) and returned with a modest set of stoneware (cups, bowls and plates), fluffy towels in the manliest color available (dark green) and a bright red tea kettle.
British dudes liked tea, right?
Lindsey sat on the couch staring at the tea kettle where it sat on the back burner of the ancient four-burner stove, accusing him of nesting.
It was just a god-damned kettle, an aisle-end display impulse buy. A couple towels. Bare essentials. Shouldn’t he make his champion’s home… homey?
Lindsey stuffed the kettle far back in one of the cabinets where it couldn’t stare at him anymore and went out for beer and pizza. Leaving a mess around made him feel he’d re-asserted his manliness.
And he wasn’t waiting up. Hell no. He just had an investment, here. He had to confirm that everything went well with the mission. That was all. That was IT.
His cell rang and he almost upset the TV on its little table jumping up to grab it. “Eve?”
“No, the boogieman. We’ve run into a snag, ‘Doyle’. Spike was just here. Meeting with Angel. Going to Angel for help. Do you see the problem with this?”
Lindsey paced. “No, doesn’t make sense. Spike wouldn’t go to Angel. That’d be the last person he’d want help from.”
“I hope he’s a good lay, hon, because he’s crap for a champion.”
Lindsey stopped dead. “He’s a vampire with a soul. You want to find another one?”
“He got his ass handed to him. Turns out this crazy chick is a vampire slayer. The council of watchers sent some Alistair Cook wannabe.” There was a soft sound as Eve switched which ear she pressed to her phone. “Creepy little dweeb. Anyway, I’m reviewing the security cam footage now, but I’m thinking we may have to abandon this one. Pull Spike out, wait for an easier case.”
Lindsey sat on the arm of the couch. “He’s the slayer of slayers, Eve. This isn’t a set-back, it’s a god-damned opportunity. You wait and see, he’ll wrap up that little darlin’ and leave Angel holding her purse.”
“Wow. Your confidence in a guy really goes up after a screw. He must be pretty good after all.”
“I’m not thinking with my dick, here. I’m talking about his history. What I’ve read. Spike’s the only vampire ever to purposefully seek out a slayer, twice, and win. Angel’s never defeated a vampire slayer. Spike has. That’s all I need to know to place my bet.”
There was a small pause. “Hope you’re right, babe. Keep your line open. I’ll call with an update soon as I can.”
Lindsey tossed the closed cell phone from hand to hand. He was right. He had to be right.
He crossed to the kitchen counter and got the red teakettle out again.
***
He is at the mercy of a vampire slayer. That’s not new. His mind is befuddled, the world moving strangely around him, like molasses pouring from a teaspoon. He feels the pain, jagged and fast and burning, all the same, but he can’t move away from it, his body doesn’t quite listen to him anymore, and now he looks down and doesn’t have hands.
It’s not fair, he wants to say. I was going to use my hands. I was going to make good things. Save. Protect. I was going to…
But it is fair, all told. He isn’t the one she wanted. That’s not new. But he is guilty.
He realizes how much he’s been keeping busy, keeping moving, keeping himself from feeling the guilt. Holding his persona together like a bouquet of paper flowers in a driving rain. But now he’s got no hands and he sees it falling apart, false to start with and useless. Just wet paper, after all.
That’s new.
***
Spike lay in a hospital bed, in a small glass-walled cubicle in the medical wing of Wofram and Hart. Angel had a medical staff. Who knew?
Spike didn’t look as bad as he had, chained to that post. Angel repeated that to himself. Seeing Spike handless… it was horrible. It made his stomach tighten into a hard knot. Like watching Darla crumble into dust. Both times.
He didn’t want to have to see anything like that again. It was hard enough just seeing Spike so… corpse-like, lying surrounded by muted hospital greens like a dried lily. At least his hands were attached, now. Angel paced, his own hands balled in his pants pockets, pretending that HOPING real hard helped.
Spike stirred. An orderly responded instantly, coming in to help the vampire sit up. “Don’t try to move your arms,” she said.
Angel felt suddenly like a peeping tom. He hurried away, chewing his lip.
Hello, class four brood, he thought wryly, kicking the hall door open just because he wanted to cause a little violence.
***
“The drugs will wear off soon. Is there anything I can get for you?”
“Is there a phone?” Spike looked down at his fingers, and chuckled. “Suppose you’ll have to dial for me, love.”
“Of course, sir.” The nurse brought an old beige office phone close to the bed and held the receiver to his ear while he dictated the number Doyle had given him to call in emergencies.
“Who is this?”
Spike blinked, almost pulling back from the phone. “You always answer the phone so charmingly, Doyle?”
In the dank little apartment, lit only by the television, Lindsey jumped up from the couch, beer cans falling from his lap. “Spike. Shit, where the hell are you?”
“Wolfram and bloody Hart, if you can believe it. Medical wing. It’s a long story.”
Lindsey lost his breath. The beer cans clunked together by his feet, tuneless bells. His mind refused to supply a proper exit strategy. Spike had called him from Wolfram and Hart, where Angel could be listening in, recognizing his voice… “Never call this number again,” he snapped, and disconnected the call.
He paced, kicking the cans as far as he could. He hurriedly dialed Eve.
Spike craned his neck away from the phone. “Hang it up, love. Thanks.”
The nurse did so, a plastic sound and then the squeak of moving the side-table away from the bed again. She left without another word.
***
“This makes me feel special, mate. You brooding over me.”
Angel shifted in his seat. “This isn’t brooding. I’m… waiting. We need the hospital bed cleared. This is costing me a fortune.”
“Aw, peaches, you do care.”
“I don’t. Fred insisted we patch you up. I wanted to leave you.”
“Right. You’ve been sitting there four hours because you don’t give a rat’s ass.”
One corner of Angel’s mouth lifted. “Maybe I just like seeing you in pain.”
There was a long silence. Angel continued to look at his own hands, hanging between his knees.
Spike couldn’t take the silence. It was always a contest he’d lose. “You made me feel special, once. Like I was important to you. Don’t know if that was your intention, but there it was, a whole day and night of Angelus’ attention. And I woke up feeling this is it, right? This is the day everything changes. ‘Cept, of course, nothing changed. Do you remember that morning, Angelus? First words you spoke to me were ‘Where are my boots?’”
“No,” Angel said. “I don’t remember. It wasn’t an important day for me.”
“You made that clear at the time.”
“You were nothing to me.” Angel said. “My legacy was Drusilla. My loyal student was Penn. You? You were the stray that followed my girl home one day. You want to bring up that one day? One day in decades? Fine. I was bored. You were easy. So this… jealousy and concern you think you see in me, it’s not there. I feel nothing for you but annoyance.”
Spike’s face was unreadable. “I’m all you have left.”
Angel stood. “You’re not. You aren’t even mine. Stop being here. Stop following me.”
“I’m not…” Spike sat up, wincing as his hands took a little of his weight by accident. Angel was already out the door, his coat flapping behind him as he hurried past the windowed wall. Spike yearned for the strength to make a rude gesture. “Not following you.”
***
Angel didn’t come back to visit him. No one did, aside from a quick stop by Fred. The doctors informed him it was time to go and he was let out of the building alone.
Lindsey wasn’t there when Spike returned to the apartment. The only evidence of his presence was a pizza box and some empty beer cans.
Spike dropped his bag from the medical people - two pints of donor blood, a plastic cup, and those stupid slipper-socks with the rubber lines on the bottoms. He used the side of his thumb to push the lid up on the pizza box. Empty. Wanker.
The docs said not to push it with his hands. Not to try and lift anything heavy. Not to go fighting demons for a week, at least. Tossers.
He flexed his fingers again, feeling each tendon strain in turn like a badly-stretched wire. The digits were moving, at least, but sluggishly, jerkily, like they were frozen.
He sat down, mostly using the sides of his hands to move the chair out. It was dark, but he didn’t feel like turning the light on. He could hear the skitter of the roaches along the baseboards and the steady roll of cars going by on the street outside.
He knew why Angel was so sore, but what had he done to Doyle?
Spike peered into the pizza box one more time, just to see if there wasn’t some crust he’d missed. Smelled like it had been a supreme, too.
Petty. The world could be ending and Spike was thinking about pizza. He pushed the box away from him and it tipped off the other side of the card table. He sighed, sitting alone in his chair.
He deserved this. Loneliness. He deserved it and worse.
It was a long time before he got up, put the blood in the fridge and went to bed.
Continued!