Spike hunkered down in the narrow sewer pipe and tried to get more comfortable, despite the lack of headroom, attractive ‘slime motif’ walls, and what felt like an iron bar that insisted on sticking into his back no matter which position he tried to adopt. He was idly wondering what else was going to go wrong. He was cold; he was out of smokes; he was stuck in a filthy rat-hole for the day; the girl he’d eaten for supper had tasted disgusting; and now his beloved Desoto needed a new gearbox. Oh, and his sire still had the gem of Amara. No, not much else left to go wrong really.
Unless Angelus actually turned up of course.
Spike tried not to think about what would happen when Angel did eventually catch up with him. He suspected that, soul or no soul, the conversation was not going to be about the weather. Unless the topic of sunshine was involved.
Not that he hadn’t had his reasons for what he’d just done, of course. He had some very good reasons when all was said and done. Yes, it had started off being about getting the gem back; but somewhere around the third poker a whole bunch of other stuff seemed to have snuck in of its own accord. About Dru, and a blonde slip of a Slayer, and too many miserable months in a wheelchair, and a two hundred year old, bleach blond, master vampire who wasn’t going to take any crap from anyone any more. And a sire with a soul having walked away one hot fiery night on the other side of the world whilst the blood of a darker Slayer had been still tingling un-praised in Spike’s veins.
Stuff.
Angel knew it, Spike knew it; hell, even Marcus had known some of it. So no need for words. Just needle nosed pliers and Mozart and another hot poker thrust in with a smell like barbecued meat.
He thought he’d probably made his point.
Spike drummed his fingers against the gritty concrete wall of the pipe and wondered how the car was getting on. He had managed to find a specialist mechanic who claimed to be able to do the work, but he knew he was taking potluck. No choice though, since he’d lost his temper with his usual man over the bad job done after his last visit to Sunnydale. Possibly a mistake. But then William the Bloody, merciless killer of the night, slayer of Slayers, most favoured childe of the Scourge of Europe did not accept bad service. So what if the wing had been badly damaged by that stupid sign the Sunnydorks always left sticking up in the wrong place? The car was a classic, only one elderly owner; it deserved craftsmanship, not a vague swing with a lump hammer and half a can of spray paint.
He examined the contents of his pockets. Forty-seven dollars, a zippo, a bent penny he’d had since nineteen thirty-seven, and the jewellery he’d taken off his last meal. He was hoping that the last would fetch enough to pay for the new gearbox, or at least to get the parts ordered. But if this fellow turned out to be any good then he was probably going to have to pay in full. Either that or find someone else the next time. And there always was a next time.
The shackles of bleeding capitalism.