Chapter Text
The thrum of bass pulsed low in the background, but most of the Friday-night chaos had fizzled out. A few clingy regulars lingered, nursing drinks and bad decisions. She wove through sticky floors and half-hearted flirtation, balancing a tray of empty glasses and tips that barely scraped rent.
And there he was.
Spike, slouched deep in a booth like a man trying to sink into the leather. Jaw tight. Fingers white-knuckled around a mostly empty bottle. Another two lined up in front of him, mocking restraint.
She caught his eye and quickly looked away.
Great. Friday’s human-shaped migrane.
Buffy had filled her in—how he’d tried to raise an army of fresh-turned vamps to wreak havoc in Sunnydale, reclaim his name in blood and fire. Make the town remember why they feared him.
Didn’t go so well.
Buffy tore through them like paper and left Spike with a busted rib and bruised pride. Now here he was, marinating in cheap whiskey and failure.
She kept her route tight, avoiding his side of the room like it was radioactive.
No such luck.
“You,” Spike called out, voice rasped and slurred with bitterness. “Oi—don’t pretend you can’t hear me. Slayer’s friend. C’mon.”
She froze, tray in hand. Glanced over her shoulder. “I’m working.”
“So work and listen. Multi-task.” He took a swig straight from the bottle, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a petulant teenager.
She sighed and walked over, more tired than irritated. “What do you want, Spike?”
He tilted his head, smirking, eyes glassy. “Thought you’d appreciate a front-row seat to a proper downfall. Comes with drink specials and dramatic speeches.”
“And here I was, hoping for a quiet shift,” she muttered.
Spike leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You know, I had it sorted. Plan was solid. Turn a few key locals, build up quiet-like. Next thing you know—pow—vampire city, population: terrified. Could’ve been beautiful.”
“You wanted chaos,” she said flatly. “Buffy gave you consequences.”
“Oof. That a rehearsed line, love? Or just your natural charm?”
His jaw ticked. “Funny thing is, it always ends the same. I make my move, she cuts me down. Doesn’t matter what the move is. Doesn’t matter how clever. She finds a way to ruin it.”
“She’s good at her job,” she said. “You should have known better.”
That got a low laugh out of him—ugly, bitter. “Right. Slayer wins again. And here I am, talking to her mate, drowning in my sorrows.”
She leaned a hip against the edge of the booth, arms crossed. “You’re drunk, Spike. Go home. Sleep it off.”
“Home’s a crypt. Empty and quiet. Makes you think too loud.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You think I wanted this? Think I planned on losing with every move I make?”
Something flickered in his expression—hurt, maybe. Or just the flash of a man being told the ugly truth without sugar.
She looked him dead in the eye. “Don’t know. I try not to start fights I can’t finish.”
Spike grinned, teeth sharp beneath the bitterness. “Touché.”
She pushed off the booth. “I don’t have time for your pity party. If you used half of that energy to do something good for once, you wouldn’t be here whining. ”
“Guess you’d know all about me, huh?” he said, mocking. “All your little tea talks with Buffy. Got me all figured out.”
She looked him dead in the eye. “I don’t need tea talks to see what you are, Spike. You wear it like cheap cologne.”
He barked a laugh, bitter and loud, slapping the bottle on the table. “Right. Cheers to that, sweetheart. Hell of a world where the monster still gets thirsty, eh?”
Having had enough, she turned to leave.
“Wait,” he called out, voice raw now. “Just… stay. A bit. You hate me, fine. I don’t care. But I need someone to hate me to my face tonight.”
She hesitated, more out of exhaustion than pity.
“I don’t have time for your emotional tailspin,” she muttered. “I’m on the clock.”
“Perfect,” Spike slurred with a grin, lifting his empty bottle and shaking it dramatically. “Then do your job, sweetheart. Get me another round.”
She clenched her jaw. The urge to walk out the back door and never return was strong. But from across the bar, her manager was already eyeing her—arms crossed, mouth thin with suspicion. If she ignored a paying customer again, she knew what would happen. A “chat” in the office. Maybe worse.
Rent didn’t pay itself.
“Fine,” she hissed, snatching the bottle from his table and heading back to the bar.
When she returned and dropped the fresh bottle in front of him, he had the nerve to wink.
“Cheers, love. You’re a bloody angel.”
“Drink fast. I’ve got better things to do than babysit.”
But he didn’t shut up.
Muttering about plans gone sideways, about ambition, about the cruel joke of a universe where a predator with centuries of blood on his hands could still lose everything to one girl with a stake. Every time she passed by to bus a table or drop off a drink, he was there—still ranting, still bitter, pouring frustration into the air like she was some kind of dumping ground for his failures.
She rolled her eyes so hard it gave her a headache. But the tips were steady, and her manager was finally off her back. That was the bargain. Tolerate the sulking vampire in the corner, keep the job.
She didn’t speak to him unless absolutely necessary.
And Spike? He soaked it in like misery gave him something to chew on—smug in the knowledge that she couldn’t walk away.
It was a special kind of hell.
“Tell me this,” he slurred as she passed again, tray full of half-empty glasses. “You ever want something so bad it twisted you up? Not love—ambition. Power. Purpose. Like your skin didn’t fit anymore unless the world bent to your will?”
She didn’t even glance at him. “Sounds like the start of a villain’s monologue.”
But Spike was well past the stage of taking a hint—especially after three bottles and a freshly shattered reputation.
“I’m serious,” he called louder. “You ever feel like you were meant for more? Like you were built to take—but every time you reach, someone snaps your fingers clean off?”
She dropped her tray at the bar with a little too much force and spun back around, her smile brittle and razor-thin. “Unless you’re ordering something I can put on a tab, I’m not your therapist.”
He leaned forward, eyes sharp behind the fog. “You ever give everything to something—only to get stomped out like a cigarette before it even caught fire?”
She paused. Briefly. That one landed close.
But then Spike slouched back, smugness reloading in his grin. “Yeah. Thought so.”
She crossed her arms, jaw tight. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“Don’t need to.” He gave a lazy shrug. “Failure’s a universal language, innit? You don’t wear yours with fangs and fire—but I see it. Neat little uniform. This job. All tidy on the outside, but you’ve got the same cracks. Different ruin, same dust.”
She blinked. The words caught her off guard—too close to something real. Then the heat returned.
“Don’t lump me in with whatever spiral you’re on. You tried to raise a nest of bloodsuckers and got your ass kicked. You don’t get sympathy for playing warlord and losing.”
He laughed, but there was nothing warm in it. Just the raw edge of humiliation. “Maybe. But losing still feels like acid in your guts.”
She picked up a nearby glass and dropped it into her tray—hard.
“I’ve failed at things,” she snapped. “Big ones. But I didn’t throw a tantrum across town and risk lives just to feel big again.”
Spike’s smirk faltered.
“So what—what do you do with it, then? That feeling? That hole?” His voice dropped, rougher. “Just sit with it? Let it rot?”
She met his eyes. And for the first time tonight, he wasn’t smirking. He looked small. Quiet.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice soft. “Because at least that doesn’t make you someone else’s nightmare.”
They stared at each other for a moment. No bar noise, no clatter. Just that.
Then she turned and walked away, tray clutched tight in her hands. And for once, Spike didn’t follow her with his voice.
Not right away, anyway.