As Spike arrived at the hotel to pick up his stuff he was in a good
mood. Hell, better than good. He felt as high as a kite, only without the
drugs, as if he’d just single-handedly slaughtered himself a bunch of Polgara
demons.
It was a bit disconcerting that such intense emotion should be caused by
a young man who, only two years ago, had looked like the vampire equivalent of
a candy bar: colorful on the outside - *What is it with those hideous shirts?*
- and yummy on the inside.
*Am I getting soft with old
age?* Spike wrestled with the question for a moment as he stuffed his freshly
laundered and ironed shirts into a duffel bag.
*Nah!* Emptying the
contents of the mini bar into his duster pockets and checking out of the hotel
without paying helped ease his mind.
Still evil? Check.
He climbed into the car and chucked a CD into the new player he’d
“organized” for the deSoto. He fast forwarded to the fourth track. He turned up
the volume to a sufficiently evil level, rolled down the windows to share his
new loudspeakers with the rest of the world and blared through the night. He
felt like singing. So he did. Right, so maybe the words didn’t really go with
his big bad image but it wasn’t like anyone was around to hear him. At least no
one that knew him. Besides, he’d always loved the show, ever since he’d seen it
in a small London theatre in the mid-Seventies.
“… Don’t get strung out
by the way I look,
don’t judge a book by its cover,
I’m not much of a man by the light of day,
But by night I’m one hell of a loveeeer…”
*Guess I should rent the film for Harris and Anya sometime, or - even better - take them to see the show.
I’m sure Anya would enjoy the spectacle and it’d be fun to see Harris blush.*
He started.
*Hey, I’m making plans! Plans
that don’t involve death and mayhem. Guess I really am getting soft.* But he was in too
good a mood to let it bother him.
During the drive to Sunnydale, that sense of big happy stayed with him.
He bobbed his head with the music and enjoyed the wind rushing through the open
windows. But as he approached the apartment block where Xander and Anya lived
he allowed himself to be serious for a moment and examine his feelings.
He knew quite well where that rare elation came from…
Now, love was a funny thing. A force of nature, stronger than the forces
of good and evil. It was blood not brains, and it had nothing to do with choice
or even like or dislike. It was great and made you feel alive and it set you abuzz
and it made your whole being tingle with anticipation and possessiveness. It
was also terrifying like a drug craze and it made you lose control. It could
also hurt you, crush you and twist you out of shape. It could bring out your
best and it could bring out your worst.
Spike had always loved being in love. Even when Dru had broken up with
him and he’d wallowed in misery he’d never wished for love to stop. Loving
Buffy was different, though. Those feelings had left him miserable and often
made him wish he could just stop. Worst of all, loving Buffy had made him feel
utterly lonely.
*Bugger this!*
Unrequited love was something for Arthurian knights, not for vampires.
Fortunately, the thing between Harris and him had nothing to do with
love. Or if it did, he just didn’t want to know, cause his unlife was already
complicated enough. It wasn’t just about sex, either – however marvelous that
had been. That was just the juicy mouth-watering cherry on top.
The “thing” between Harris and himself was, in a way, more precious than
love and more satisfying than sex. It wasn’t based on hormones or genetic
programming or whatever it was that made people fall in love. It was also
something Spike had never had, throughout his existence, dead or alive,
something he hadn’t known he was missing. Until recently.
Sometimes, he and Dru had come close. Sometimes, when she wasn’t
throwing tea parties for Miss Edith or plotting the end of the world, he’d felt
an inkling of it. Spike remembered with fondness nights they’d spent going to
the movies or cabarets; sneaking into zoos to taste the blood of exotic
animals; playing Rummy; or watching “Passions” and eating popcorn. But those
moments had become rarer and rarer as his Princess went through nostalgic
phases more often, pining for her own time and growing irritated with the
things Spike enjoyed, like fast cars, loud music and bustling music festivals.
He parked the deSoto, grabbed his bag and approached the building,
momentarily uncertain. All the windows were dark except for one. An inviting
yellow glow shone out of Xander’s living room window. As Spike looked up at the
balcony he felt a strange mixture of anticipation and apprehension. This was
uncharted territory. If he went up there the rules would change.
He’d have to drop his shields, the pretence, the big bad act…
The vampire lit himself a cigarette and scanned the horizon. Dusk was
already approaching. The sky had lost its blackness, but there was still enough
time to get back into the car and drive to the cemetery. Maybe that’s where he
belonged.
If he went up to that balcony he’d probably have to stop treading on the
dark side, too - at least for a lifetime. No more big checks in the ‘still
evil’-column. Didn’t mean he had to turn into a knight in shining armor… *God forbid!* But it certainly meant
changing some of his ways.
He crushed his half-smoked cigarette underfoot.
*What the heck! Been walking in the twilight for the last couple of
years. More or less. Gets easier with time.*
It wasn’t really a difficult decision. Xander, who’d already seen more
of the bumbling poet and the love-struck Romeo than anyone else (except maybe
Buffy), had unwittingly made the one offer Spike couldn’t refuse. “Right then.”
He slung the bag over his shoulder and climbed up. He pushed against the door.
Sure enough they had left it open. Spike slipped inside and inhaled deeply,
catching a faint trace of the inhabitants’ lingering scents.
There were three lit candles sitting on the dining room table. He could have
seen just as well without the illumination, but he liked their welcoming glow.
There were sheets and pillows on the sofa. Spike walked over to the
makeshift bed and silently set his bag down on the floor. He ran his hand over
the white pillow. It felt smooth and it smelled clean and fresh.
He smiled. A door closes, another one opens. All kinds of images were
swirling through his mind: Xander, Anya and him riding a roller coaster; Xander
and him watching soccer matches on telly; hanging out at the Bronze with the
Scoobies. *Gotta teach Xander how to play
snooker.* He was looking forward to
hours of talking, listening, laughing and arguing.
There were bound to be setbacks. “So what,” he said quietly to himself.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
After almost a hundred and twenty years of being dead this was the first
time anyone had ever called him a friend. He wasn’t about to mess this up.