Old Enemies... (S/X)

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Part 3
He knew he was haunted. He had to be. Or else it was the bloody soul inside him.
He couldn't figure any other reason for the way his so-called life had gone since what was supposed to be the final battle.
He'd expected to die there beside his Sire... or rather the Vampire who'd acted as his Sire since Dru was too bleeding wonky to act as such. But he hadn't.
Most of the others had, sure. And he'd PLANNED on doing so himself!
But sodding Lorne had other plans for him, it seemed.
After going and telling them all how he wouldn't be back, the poncey, swishy Pylean had come out of nowhere just as the fight was reaching a fever pitch and... clocked him in the head then shoved him down a manhole into the sewers!
And apparently the bloke had made arrangements because when he'd come to, he'd been in New Mexico with a group of Crashtith demons.
He figured the others were all dead by then; even the ones he hadn't seen pass. His Sire, the thug, the ex-Watcher and the Blue Bitch. They for damned sure hadn't been around by the time he got back to L.A. to look for them. Of course, neither had Lorne... aside from a few scraps of green, lightly scaled chunks of flesh under a dumpster. Might not have been him, necessarily, but... how many Pyleans were likely to have been in that alley at the right time?
And so Spike had done what Spike had always done. He made the best of it.
He went back to the Wolfram and Hart office building, amazed that it was still standing.
He slipped inside, avoiding Hell-beasts when he could and killing them when he couldn't.
He made his way to Angel's office, then up the elevator-- miraculously still working-- to his Sire's rooms and... looted them.
It wasn't hard to figure out that the combination to the safe was the date he was turned, then the date Dru was. It was SO easy, in fact, that he wondered whether Angel had done it deliberately so his favourite childe wouldn't be alone AND empty handed.
He rather thought he might have, simply because of the order of the dates. His turning, then Dru's. Maybe he'd meant something to the wanker after all.
He deliberately ignored the thought that if Angel HAD done that, it meant he'd known about Lorne's plan... had maybe even been in on it.
Six million in cash made a bloody big parcel, even when stuffed into the bag so thoughtfully left within the safe. The diamonds made less of a package. Those he stuck in the pockets of his jeans.
That wasn't what had made him cry, though.
No, what made him cry was the ring.
Angel must have snatched it from the Master, way back in Sunnyhell and kept it hidden all that time because he'd for damn sure never seen him wear it. Still, there it was.
Spike remembered smiling as he slipped the platinum band with its tiny diamonds and huge ruby onto his index finger. "I'll make ya proud, Peaches," he'd whispered into the still, sweltering air of his Sire's home. "I'll be th' Master of Aurelius for ya, seein' as I'm all that's left."
With that he'd turned and walked to one of the huge, spelled windows and broken it by throwing a chair through it. The spells seemed to have weakened for some reason.
Then he stepped from it, plummeting the three hundred feet without anything but a smirk, groaning slightly as he landed, then straightened.
And then... he'd walked away.
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His walk hadn't gotten him too far, he realized, dragging himself from his own memories. He hadn't even made it back to England!
Still, New York was a good way away from California.
He wasn't entirely sure of why he'd chosen New York. Maybe because he still had fond memories of Nikki, but he doubted that.
More likely, he figured, it was because it was where he'd run into the bloke who'd made his look famous.
The pissant motherfucker was an enormous wanker of course, but still... by stealing his look, the LOOK would be remembered forever.
If he was dusted tomorrow, some kid down the line would show up with bleached hair, ripped shirt, jeans, and... yeah, it was a legacy. Perhaps not one he was thrilled about but... with a soul, how could he go back to Jolly Old and kill the prat? Besides... the fuck might already be dead. He'd heard he'd lived in L.A. for a time. Whether he still did or not was another question, and not one he cared enough about to find out. He'd just believe he was dead and that would do.
That thought made him smile as he continued following the tiny-breasted blonde woman down the street. The chit had "victim" written all over her. He'd be surprised if he was the only predator out tonight. Hell, he'd STAKE himself if he was the only predator out. That's how certain he was.
Luckily for Spike, he didn't have to go to those extremes because as soon as the bloody stupid chit turned down a side street she was surrounded by three vamps without souls.
He watched for a few moments, letting the girl get good and scared, then he stepped forward into the edge of the streetlight's pool.
"Think ya might be wantin' ta move along, blokes," he said softly, pulling a slightly crumpled Marlboro from his pocket and lighting it quickly.
He squinted a bit at them, smirking as he took another step closer to the girl, his eyes locked on the alleged lead-vamp. "I'm lookin' out for this one."
It amazed him that his reputation had grown so much in less than five years in a metropolis the size of New York, but... the vamps took one look at him and even their leader turned tail and ran.
Spike growled and pushed the blonde away. Amazing how small tits and yellow hair transcended everything else. He might have saved the bint's life, but that didn't mean he wanted to bed her! And all because he'd seen how unhappy she was when she'd left the bar.
Now that he knew how she acted, he was surprised the bloke she'd been talking to hadn't hauled off and HIT her.
He pushed her off again, then faded into the shadows, still watching until she entered what he assumed was her building.
"Right, then," he murmured, "I'm off."
It was the same every night. He went out once the sun set, found himself in a bar or club or whatever. Scouted until he found the most likely targets, then... followed.
It wasn't the same as what he'd done before but he was damaged somewhat. Even his soul thought he'd done enough.
Let others save the world. He'd just save a human or two at a time.
That was enough, wasn't it...?
It would have to be, he told himself as he strode the loud, dirty streets. After all, it was all he could do these days. Especially with his soul.
It had taught him a few things. TOLD him a few things. He wasn't all powerful. He'd learned that. And he was alone. More alone than he'd ever been in his life.
First he'd had Mother. Then Dru and Angelus. Even Darla. Then... the Scooby Gang.
Lastly, he'd had Angel and his crew.
All dead.
Every last one of them. Dead.
Oh, he knew most of the Sunnyhell crew had gotten out... probably. He’d even seen that little wanker Andrew a time or two. Almost saw Buffy once, when he’d gone to Italy with the poof. But considering what they must have been going on towards, he knew they were all dead, too.
A part of him still mourned for Buffy. She'd been a good adversary when he'd been soul-less. And he missed the Nibblet. Of all of them, she'd least deserved to die... except for the other. The one who'd given him sanctuary even through hate. The one who'd taunted and hurt with his words and so-called humour. The one he couldn't forget holding onto when that pain from the lost eye burned. Yeah... he missed Xander the most. But he knew the younger bloke was dead by now. Hell. Even before the Watcher's Council blew up, they hadn't been so good at looking after their own.
Spike sighed deeply and let his feet drag him to one of the better gay bars.
He wasn't exactly gay, but... he'd feel better if he could find a tall, handsome young dark-haired man... one who'd wear the eye patch while he buried himself deep and thought of other times.
Not happier times, necessarily, but... better ones.
It was a plan, and as plans went, Spike figured he'd had worse ones.