Daleks pursued Spike along metal-floored corridors, their harsh metallic voices commanding him to stop and surrender the eggs. The Master, as personified by the late Roger Delgado, steepled his fingers and looked at Spike with a saturnine sneer. “Give me the eggs, William. A miserable human like you cannot hope to stand against me,” he mocked. Brigadier Lethbridge-Stuart hastened up. “Hand over the eggs, there’s a good chap,” he ordered. The Jon Pertwee incarnation of Doctor Who arrived at the wheel of ‘Bessie’. “Put the eggs in the back, William, and I’ll take them to the Tardis,” he urged. K-9 trundled up. “Make it go away!” Drusilla shrieked. She had always hated that robot. A whole series of Doctor Who had been ruined for him by Dru’s screeching. “Make the bad dog go away, Spike.”
Spike woke disorientated, entangled in bedclothes, struggling against phantom opponents, shouting to a dream Buffy “A stake won’t work! It takes gold to kill a Cyberman.” He clawed his way free of the sheets and stared about him, wondering where he was, and then memory flooded back. He stared at the mirror. His reflection stared back at him. “So it wasn’t all a dream,” he muttered, and climbed from the bed.
The by-products of a human digestion were still strange and, frankly, disgusting to Spike, but they had to be accepted and endured. After putting up with that discomfort and indignity, he then realised that he needed a shave. “Have to get a razor,” he told the reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Can’t leave it a month between shaves any more, can I? Should I get one of those ones with lots of blades? Two blades, three blades, Mach 3. Wonder if there’s one with four yet? Does it matter?” The reflection did not reply.
Breakfast. He couldn’t help feeling that breakfast should include bacon, kidneys, sausages, eggs, mushrooms, smoked haddock, and kedgeree. However there had been servants to prepare it back in his first human life, and it seemed far too much hassle now he had to do it for himself. No, it had to be Weetabix. What would it taste like with milk instead of blood? Not very nice, was his first thought, but it improved with the addition of sugar. At least it was respectably British and had a sensible name instead of the appallingly naff names that afflicted the cereals Dawn preferred. Perhaps he’d try Shredded Wheat next time. Or Corn Flakes. That was a nice neutral name.
‘God, carrying on a debate with myself about breakfast cereals,’ Spike thought to himself. ‘What could be more pathetic?’ “Sitting brooding about how pathetic it is to be obsessing about the names of cereals,” he said aloud, and turned his attention to the television.
He found that most of the channels were blank. Only the major networks were available. He found a leaflet beside the descrambler, and skimmed through it; apparently he had to pay to get the other possible channels. There were instructions for how to arrange it, and that became one of his priority tasks for the day.
The apartment was as impersonal as a hotel room. Empty bookshelves looked at him accusingly. Another task. If he was going to host a house-warming party he’d need music. He’d lost most of his CD collection when Harmony fell out with him and set fire to them. Okay, they were bootleg knock-offs picked up in Prague, but there’d been some good stuff on them, and they were gone. He could go over to the crypt and retrieve his old record player and vinyl albums; or he could go out and buy some CDs. Or both. Stock up with more food for the party, and some drinks for the guests. Call in at the Magic Box and see Anya, get her to check out the Lottery ticket for him. Track down Harmony and tell her how sorry he was for the way he’d treated her. What? Where the Hell had that thought come from?
He’d treated Harmony the way Buffy had treated him. Used her. She’d been right in what she said to him the last time he’d seen her; she gave and gave and gave, and he’d taken everything, until at last she had nothing left to give. Just as Buffy had taken everything from him until he had nothing left. He could never make it up to her, but she deserved an apology. She’d gone to LA after leaving Sunnydale; he’d heard from Willow that Harmony had stayed with Cordelia for a while, but apparently she wasn’t there any more. They hadn’t staked her, she’d left; maybe Angel or Cordelia would know where she was.
Ask them? God, that’d be a fun conversation - not. And did Angel deserve an apology too? Did the things Angelus had done absolve Spike from guilt for what he’d done to Angel? Whether it did or not, an apology was the right thing to do. Not that it would help. Spike swallowed, gathered his nerve, and went to the telephone.
There were tears running down Buffy’s face as she put down the telephone, but they were tears of happiness. Her father loved her, missed her. He hadn’t abandoned her at all; the gang had just done too good a job of convincing him to stay away, back in the summer while she’d been dead, and they’d made him think she didn’t want him.
It wasn’t down to Halfrek’s spell. It was real. Buffy thought she was beginning to get the hang of how the wishes worked; they took the path of least resistance. Dracula was manipulated into overpaying his long-standing debt to Spike. A car dealer overvalued the DeSoto. The British Consul issued a replacement for a lost passport. And a woman called Hallie Addams had called on Hank Summers and told him the truth about Buffy’s situation. He’d acted immediately to help out. Halfrek. She’d done everything with the minimum of changes to history, just as Buffy had specified. Oh, there’d been minor tricks with time; the letter to the University had been received weeks before Hank had sent it, for instance; but nothing major. Everything of the good, nothing of the bad. Looked like there’d be no down side to the wish at all.
The phone call to Angel had been strange. Angel had been totally preoccupied with something else, something he wasn’t willing to discuss. He had produced a contact number for Harmony without question; he seemed only interested in getting Spike off the phone as quickly as possible. Spike had sensed something wrong, offered to help in any way he could; his Grandsire had turned the offer down. Angel had been so unlike himself that Spike had suspected for a while that Angelus was back, but apparently not. Spike had refrained from mentioning the whole turning human thing. Angel seemed to have quite enough on his mind already.
Oddly, the call to Harmony had gone very well. She still cared for him, forgave him for everything, was doing well without him, and was happy. She asked him to buy Anya and Xander a wedding present on her behalf, preferably unicorn-related, and he’d agreed. The conversation had been warm and friendly. There had been good times during his relationship with Harmony; she might be a Vampire of Very Little Brain, but she had been a loyal and loving companion to him, and he was relieved to find that she was over her broken heart and had not been lastingly damaged. Spike put the phone down secure in the comforting knowledge that, if he found his humanity too much to cope with, he had only to call and the most incompetent vampire on the planet would rush to Sire him. Or at least to make a total pig’s ear of trying to Sire him.
Buffy wandered around town aimlessly. There were things she had to do to prepare for her return to University, but she wasn’t really in the mood. All she could think about was Spike. She browsed through a couple of clothes stores. Should she buy a new outfit for his housewarming party? Tempting, but if she frittered away her money on clothes her new-found financial stability would vanish again, and Spike still hadn’t seen the outfit she’d intended to wear the previous day. Riley had turned up, dragged her out on a demon hunt, and had presented her with a set of Kevlar fatigues which she had still been wearing when she met Spike. Not quite the impression she’d wanted to make. Although the fatigues were eminently practical, would save a lot of wear and tear on her clothes, and would mean that her clothing budget would go further in future. Perhaps a new outfit wouldn’t be too extravagant after all. And some new underwear would be of the good. Something by La Perla, perhaps. Something to pop Spike’s eyes after the party.
Spike waited nervously while Anya checked out the lottery ticket. “It’s not the jackpot,” she told him, and he sighed with relief. Winning millions of dollars would have been just too much to cope with. “But it is a winner. Five matching numbers. How much you’ve won depends on how many other winning tickets there were. Here we are. You’re one of four. You’ve won $63,285, but Federal and State taxes are payable on that, so you’ll end up with about $38,000.”
A broad grin spread across Spike’s face. “Fantastic. Couldn’t be better. I can spend what I got from the realtors on stuff to make the apartment into a home, and still have enough to live on for a year or two. I can take my time getting a job that suits me, if I change my mind about the job I can quit to look for something else, no pressures. And I can splash out a bit. Get you a decent wedding present for a start, love. All I’d got you was a photo album, which would be a bit mean now that I’m not skint any more. Suppose I got the disposable cameras for the place settings that Captain Cardboard’s wife suggested? That be okay? You’ll have to tell me how many.”
“Seventy-nine,” Anya replied instantly. “Eighty if we can persuade Giles to stay for the wedding, which shouldn’t be too hard. Would you really, Spike? That would be wonderful of you.”
“Of course, love. Saves me trying to find something suitable left on your wedding list so close to the time. While we’re on the subject of the wedding, know if anyone’s set up a Stag Night for Xander?”
Anya looked blank for a moment, and then recognised the term. “A bachelor party, you mean? Not as far as I know. I was saying to him just yesterday that he should have a bachelor party with strippers, but it’s the Best Man’s job to arrange that and he was silly enough to have Willow as his Best Man, so I don’t think it’ll happen. He should have asked you to be his Best Man.”
“Well, I was an evil vampire, not a man and not really best anything,” Spike pointed out. “Don’t blame him for not asking. But now …” he thought for a moment. “I think I could probably come up with something, even at such short notice, that’d suit both humans and demons. Still got a few contacts, and now I’ve got a bit of cash. Sure you don’t mind strippers, love?”
“It’s traditional. I hinted at having overly muscular male strippers at my bachelorette party, but I don’t know if the girls have done anything about that either.”
“Well, they’ve been a bit skint, too. Willow usually has a fair bit of cash, but she’s not too eager to part with it, and the others were always flat broke until Buffy’s dad came through yesterday. But now you’ve got a Fairy Godfather. In a totally non-poofy, non-Mafia way, that is. You shall go to the ball, Anya, and your Prince Charming’s going to have a ball too. Better not be the night before the wedding, got to be sure he’ll be able to walk down the aisle rather than stagger. Of course, his mates from work might have set something up, I’d better check up on that. What’s that pillock Richard’s surname?”
“Barret,” Anya told him. “He might be a bit out of the loop, as he was off work for a while after he got stabbed by that demon, but he’d know who else to ask.” She looked at Spike inquisitively. “You’re sounding much more like yourself, Spike. Feeling more together now?”
“Yeah, not so much like I’m a stranger in my own body. Maybe being human’s not so bad. Thanks for everything, love. Now I’d best be off. I’ve got things to plan, shopping to do, strippers to hire.” Spike turned to go, but then remembered something. “Oh, explain to me how I claim the lottery winnings, would you, pet?”
Buffy hadn’t realised there were so many different varieties of condom. Ultra Thin, Maximum Pleasure, Extended Pleasure, Snugger Fit, Pleasure Mesh – she backed away from the sales display feeling in danger of suffering a brain explosion brought on by a surfeit of condoms. She should have asked Anya for advice. Or perhaps not, that way lay a definite brain explosion. She spotted one titled ‘Durex Pleasure Pack, 12 Assorted Styles’ and grabbed it. They could try all the varieties out, find a style they liked, and get more of that style in the future. The test driving would be fun.
That was the last of her shopping. She’d even picked up the supplies she needed for her return to classes. Good Buffy, entitled to a biscuit. Now she could go home, shower, and make sure she looked at her best ready for the party and some Spike loving.
Food for the party, drinks for the party, check. A selection of CDs, including several British imports, check. A few DVDs, check. Eighty disposable cameras, check. A unicorn statuette; pewter, superbly sculpted, so beautiful he wouldn’t have objected to it in his own apartment even after the unicorn overdose he’d had whilst living with Harmony, wrapped and with her name on the gift tag, check. Home and unload the car, take a break for lunch, check. Phone Clem and invite him, check. Now to stock up on some books to fill those accusingly empty shelves. SF, thrillers, humour; maybe some books by that English bloke Terry Pratchett who he’d heard such good reports about, if the shops hereabouts stocked them. Perhaps something covering recent developments in Archaeology, just in case he decided he would go for that job in the University, and Latin and Ancient Greek dictionaries for the same reason.
It turned out that Tarantula did indeed work in a bookshop. She didn’t recognise him at first. The Goth Chick frowned slightly, and half smiled; obviously feeling he looked familiar, but unable to place him. Even when he spoke it didn’t click immediately. Until he called her ‘pet’, at which point she nearly fainted. Her astonishment was so total that it removed her from his list of those who could be responsible for his ‘life change’. One theory that had occurred to him was that she was really an ultra-powerful witch, who had rewarded him for saving her life by restoring his. It hadn’t seemed likely, as a witch that powerful would never have been in danger in the first place, but it had been a slim possibility. No longer. She was just a girl who worked in a shop, who knew a little more about the denizens of the night than the average Sunnydale citizen, but had no extraordinary powers.
She was pleasant company, and she had shown an interest in him even though he had been a vampire when they met. It was soon apparent that her interest hadn’t waned now that he was human. Should he invite her to his housewarming party? He was interested in getting to know her better, it would be a good start, but she might be a little stranded among strangers there, and Buffy might make things more awkward for her. Sour grapes syndrome; the Slayer had always denied that what they had had was a relationship, but he bet she’d resent anyone else having one with him. Tough. She’d just have to accept it. He debated with himself for a moment as Tarantula helped him make his purchases, and then decided to go for it.
Her face lit up, but then fell again. Yes, she was delighted to be asked, but unfortunately she already had commitments for tonight. Spike was relieved and disappointed at the same time. “How about lunch tomorrow?” he suggested, and the alacrity with which she accepted confirmed that her inability to come to the party was not just a face-saving excuse to turn him down.
Richard was actually a pretty good bloke, now that Spike was meeting him in more favourable circumstances. No longer a rival for Buffy’s affections; in fact it would be a positive advantage if he did get off with Buffy, solve a potentially awkward situation nicely. Not terribly likely, he was a bit too white bread for the Slayer, but just possible. Of course, the dreadful party which wouldn’t end, and the whole being stabbed in the stomach by a demon thing, might have put Richard off the whole idea anyway.
No, the guys at work hadn’t fixed up a bachelor party for Xander; they were all just a bit nervous of Anya. Yes, they’d be all for it if she was okay with it, or even if she wasn’t as long as Spike would take any heat. Yes, one of the guys knew how to get hold of a couple of strippers, he’d done it for another party, and the girls were hot chicks and knew how far to go. Yes, he’d love to come to Spike’s party, see that little blonde girl again, but only if there was an absolute guarantee that no freaks would come out of the walls and start sticking people with swords, and that he’d be able to leave when he’d had enough. Man, that is one Hell of a cool car. Nice to see you again, Spike. How’d you get a nickname like that, anyway?
Spike had thought of an explanation somewhat more innocuous than the gruesome real reason, and gave it its first test run on Richard. Spike Milligan, English comedian, former partner of Peter Sellers, popular with students, I used to quote from his sketches and picked up the nickname at University. Richard accepted it without question, he’d even vaguely heard of Spike Milligan – “He was in ‘Life of Brian’, wasn’t he?” he asked, correctly – and the explanation passed its first test with flying colours.
Now that Richard had accepted the invitation, Spike was seized by a sudden wicked impulse and called into Double Meat Palace to invite Sophie to his party. Now the entire cast from the Never-Ending Party was reassembled; hopefully without the demon in the walls, and without the guest appearance by that demon Halfrek who had seemed oddly familiar. That should stop the party dragging on beyond its natural expiry date; the guests would probably be only too eager to leave at a decent hour. Actually, it might be overkill. Everybody might be too rattled to enjoy the party at all.
Oh well, not like he could go back and uninvite Sophie, or Richard. He’d have to find another way to stop it being a carbon copy of the previous party. Invite someone else. He’d tried Tarantula already. There weren’t all that many people, or indeed harmless demons, who he knew in Sunnydale these days. He could tell the Bit that it was okay to bring Janice. He could invite Willy the Snitch, except that he didn’t trust Willy enough to allow him inside anywhere with a plasma TV and other valuable consumer goods. Spike scowled. It was only just occurring to him quite how small his circle of acquaintances had become during his time in Sunnydale. Still, the bachelor party might change that, and he’d got on okay with a couple of Tarantula’s mates at the literary evening. The circle might grow wider in the near future.
As it was, about the only other people he even knew by name were the wanker who’d built the BuffyBot and his two pals, and they were hardly party invite material seeing as how Warren was probably a murderer and the other two were accomplices. Something sparked in his memory. Warren, Jonathan, and the other one. Star Trek action figures, comics, computer games, Doctor Who videos – that was it! That was what his subconscious had been trying to tell him in his dream.
Doctor Who. The Doctor. It was exactly the sort of alias that one of those three idiots would adopt, and the hare-brained scheme to sell demon eggs with absolutely no thought whatsoever of the consequences was just their style. Their signature was all over it; a cheap web-cam, chewing gum over the LED, but two trained Government agents couldn’t back-track it; using limited resources with high competence and ingenuity, but for a purpose which was not totally rational. The Doctor was Warren, or possibly one of his loser pals acting under Warren’s orders. He was sure of it.
Spike headed for the phone. This was something the Slayer needed to know straight away.