Title: To Trudge
Author: frimfram
Rating: 12-ish - scandalous drunken behaviour, bad puns
Genre: Comedy. Spike & Lorne friendship.
Timeframe: Immediately post-In The Dark, AtS1
Summary: After failing to retrieve the Gem of Amarra, Spike makes two mistakes: walking into a bar, and starting to soliloquise...

Thanks to bogwitch for the beta - the Mai Tai's for you!


To Trudge

"To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simply soldier on. "- Chaucer in A Knight's Tale.

In a dark bar, Spike was conjuring spirits. Simple method: he poured drink steadily down his throat, til all the sharp lines went fuzzy and the lights started to blur. Then she would appear, walking, wavering, out of the depths of his memory, sweet as Snow White and cruel as the witch. Never failed. Spike knew the quickest route through a bottle of Jack Daniels to oblivion, and was heading south fast. Joint like this, he didn't reckon the barman would cut him off.

Didn't feel the first three drinks til he was halfway down the fourth, when his private mutterings about the ruinous, ending day began to lose their vitriol. Fifth drink, and he was on to the general injustices of the universe: responsible drinking campaigns, and their effect on girls who would otherwise make ideal snack candidates; daylight savings time; the iniquity of needing an invite to cross a threshold. How was a bloke supposed to meet new people, broaden his horizons, better himself, if he couldn't come and go as he pleased?

Then, around drink number seven, the alchemy worked. Thoughts of failure led to thoughts of her - Drusilla, black goddess, love of his unlife, traitorous bitch. Some bloke next to him had ordered a drink that hung viscous and thick in its tall glass, its heady, rouge noir colour reminding Spike of Dru's lips. It'd been nearly a year since she'd left him, but, God, she'd have loved this afternoon. She always had been fond of red-hot pokers, probably would've liked seeing the tables turned on her daddy. Who cut quite a dash with his shirt half-off, as it happened. Huh. One part of his brain catching up to another, Spike squinted at the nearly-empty glass in front of him. Could beer-goggles be retroactive?

Dru. Dru was the matter at hand. "Reminds me of my girlfriend," he told the owner of the blackberry-coloured drink, who stared at him in astonishment.

"That's a Canadian Daiquiri," observed the barkeeper as the customer left with his drink. "Reminds you of your girl?"

"Yeah," said Spike, mournfully. "What's in it?"

The barkeeper gave him a laconic look. "Maple syrup and pureed beaver."

As Spike opened his mouth to reply, the speakers on the stage behind him whined piercingly with feedback from a microphone. In a moment the rising shriek gave way, and the bass bins began grumbling out a good, throbbing twelve-bar blues. Oh yeah. Spike peered over his shoulder in time to see the figure on stage start singing: he was a grizzled bloke, worn-looking suit that must have been nice once, and he held the mic-stand between over-sized hands. Two pairs of neatly-filed tusks pierced his leathery cheeks, and a forty-a-day singing voice welled up out of his chest. "Further on up the road, somebody's gonna hurt you like you hurt me."

The place was both the oddest demon bar and the oddest karaoke bar Spike had ever been in. Had to hand it to the singer, though: took balls to sing Clapton in a joint like this. Everyone up til now had been massacring I Will Survive, or We Will Rock You, or Ricky Martin – the kind of dross that deserved it. The demon on stage, though – he could hold a tune. Spike watched in admiration. He'd believed for a long time that no one with a soul could understand the blues. Forgetting everything but the rebellious roll of guitars and a rough voice, he tapped one black-booted toe unselfconsciously under the stool and swirled the whiskey around the bottom of his glass. Couldn't help humming along for a few bars, voice harsh under his breath, and didn't notice the tall figure til he was standing over him.

"This one's on me."

A hand slid a drink across the bar. At least, Spike assumed it was a drink. Thing bore precious little resemblance to anything else he'd knocked back so far that evening. It was an alarming pink triangle in its martini glass, decorated with a yellow umbrella and a glacé cherry on a cocktail stick. Kind of reminded him of Harmony. Spike stared up through the alcoholic fugue; might've been the three pints, litre or so of Jack, and solitary, surreptitious gin and tonic, but the guy in front of him appeared to be green and dressed in a lounge suit.

"Thanks, sweetheart, but it's not really my thing," he managed. His voice was taking on that rasp that only nasty whiskey could impart.

"Ah, live a little," chided the demon, with an expansive wave of the hand. Spike scowled at him. "Jeez, you vamps are touchy fellas. Unlive, whatever you want. Come on, I'm not trying to pick you up. Just giving you a pick-me-up!" The demon chuckled lightly at his own joke. "It's free, and you look like you need it, and maybe a shoulder to cry on."

Spike curled his lip. "Only cry on very special occasions. Arsenal stealing the championship, Abba proposing a come-back tour. Y'know – real tragedies."

The red-horned demon raised his eyebrows. "I'm only letting the Abba comment go since you're in obvious pain."

"Yeah. You feel my pain. Decent of you, but unless you've got a failsafe way of getting my cheating, slime-loving girlfriend back, or wanna help me shave off my old grandsire's eyebrows while he's sleeping, I'm probably better off with Mr Daniels here." Spike waved vaguely in the direction in which he imagined he'd last seen his whiskey. His fingertips connected with the rim of the cocktail glass and knocked it over. The vampire blinked at the spilt liquid pathetically.

"So much for vamp reflexes." The demon shook his head. "Here, I'll get you another."

"Make it a pint of bitter this time?" asked Spike.

"Not this side of the pond, slim. Rolling Rock?"

The vampire nodded in resignation.

"Ramone, a beer for the sweet little bloodsucker. If we've any left. I tell ya, some of the singing we've had in here tonight? I've never seen people flee into alcohol so fast, and can't say I blame them. Hell, I've been self-medicating since that Fyarl slaughtered 'Superstition.'" The barman cracked the bottleneck of a beer and set it down in front of Spike.

Spike raised his eyebrows, but necked the proffered beer appreciatively. "If we've any left? You're the host here, then?" he asked, watching the green demon settle into the barstool next to him.

"Got it in one. And you're Spike, right?" He smiled at the vampire's look of surprise. "Your reputation precedes you. I was starting to think Caritas was the only demon bar in town you weren't gonna patronise. I've got to say, mister, you look awful."

Spike frowned. "Oh, no, don't hold back to spare my feelings. Tell it like it is."

The host smiled ruefully. "Sorry, kiddo. It's kind of my job."

"Kicking a bloke when he's down?" Spike adopted his most put-upon frown.

"Telling it like it is, sugarcane. I read people's auras. I can tell what's in their heads and hearts, and help them see things straight. Usually folks have to sing for me to get the skinny, but boy, you're a heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy alright. And while we're on the subject of sleeves, love the coat."

Spike squinted up at the peculiar demon, completely unable to work out how odd he'd find this if he were stone cold sober. "What, you're reading my mind? Bit forward, that. Shouldn't we at least chat about my hobbies first?"

The host smiled. "Cute. Not reading your mind, reading your aura. You've got 'woe is me' vibes coming off you in big, black, nasty waves. You're the emotional equivalent of the Exxon Valdez."

Spike rolled his eyes demonstratively. "Huh, that's really quite the gift you've got. See me here drinkin' your wet bar dry, and you can tell just like that I'm feelin' down in the dumps."

"Listen, Mr. Cynical. I get that you aren't on top of the world tonight. And you're right, it's not just the anagogic who've got dirt on you just now. Half the town knows you were out looking for the Gem of Amara, and I'm guessing by the moping and belly-aching and general lack of bling that things haven't gone your way. Also, what's this?" The host poked a red-nailed finger into Spike's hair. His earlier strafing with sunlight had left distinct singe-marks in the bleached thatch, and made his scalp too sore to gel the spoilt style back into place. Instead, his hair stuck up unevenly in short, slightly-scorched blond curls. He scowled, and swatted the host's hand away irritably. "Never mind," continued the demon affably, "the ladies'll love it. All I'm saying is, let me cut you a break. Talk to me, and I might be able to help you out."

Spike hitched an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? You wanna tell me my destiny? Set me on my path?"

The host raised his eyes to the heavens. "The boy can be taught!"

Spike snorted. "You wouldn't be the first to make that mistake. Listen, Jolly Green. Thanks for the drink an' all, but I don't need a peep in your crystal ball. 'M'not the destiny sort." His face turned gloomy. "Last thing I thought was my destiny, up and left me for this great slimy green bastard!" He paused. "Er, no offence, like."

"Whoa there, sweetheart. Watch who you're calling slimy."

"Yeah. Right. Well, point still stands," he slurred. "Not interested in destiny. Way I see it, all that destiny bollocks is for trumped-up, self-important, miserable, soul-having wankers. S'what they talk about to get them off the hook for all the nasty things they've done." Warming to his theme, Spike punched his fist lightly against his chest. "Now, me - I'm me own man. Demon! Don't need no-one to set me on my path. You know all about this Gem of Whosit business, then?" The host nodded. "Yeah. With that, I just lost everythin' I had to lose. That happened to some people, they'd brood about it for years! Some people." Dimly, Spike sensed that the seventh, eighth, and ninth drinks appeared to have all slammed into his brain simultaneously. He made a conscious effort to keep from swaying. "Yeah! But you don't see me sittin' around, moping about it." Realising that he was in fact sitting, and that drinking himself into oblivion to a soundtrack of gravely blues could be construed as moping, Spike stood up abruptly. His tall stool toppled over backwards, hitting the tiles with a crash, and the assorted demonic fauna propping up the bar turned as one to stare.

The host donned a conciliatory, 'hey, kids' smile, trying to deflect attention from the increasingly-voluble vampire drunkard, but the demon onstage had stopped singing. Spike, newly in the limelight, just set his jaw and grinned, returning to his soliloquy. "That's right. Whatever's in front of my feet, that's my path. Just gotta keep going, straightforward-like. Gonna follow my nose back to Sunnyhell, and stick it to that Slayer bitch. Show her a few things, about destiny, and being chosen, and what-all. Same goes for anyone else who stands in my way! I'm Spike, and I'm gonna plough me own furrow. One foot in front of the other." Hands thrust deep in the pockets of his duster, Spike took one decisive, determined step away from the bar, and collapsed face-first in a drunken stupor.

A few of the braver customers applauded.

Lorne sighed heavily. "One foot in front of the other. See how that works out for you," he said, under his breath. He directed a showman's apologetic shrug to the massed ranks staring across the club. "Well, how about that, folks? Now let's hear it for Horatio and his rendition of Further On Up The Road! Gave blondie here the blues, for sure." As the audience turned back to the demon with the microphone and burst into sincere applause, Lorne turned to the bartender. "Ramone, babycakes – give me a hand doing the honours?"

They hefted the unconscious vampire, burnt-blond head lolling, and carried him into the break room. "He gonna be alright?" asked Ramone, the barman, laying the vampire out on the couch and unlacing his boots.

"Well, he'll sleep off the drink in a few hours," offered Lorne.

Ramone smiled. "And beyond that?"

Lorne wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. "Yeesh. Good thing he wouldn't let me tell him anything. Got a glance at that future when he hummed along with Mr. Clapton, and it's not for the faint-hearted."

"Anything specific?"

Lorne shook his head. "Nah, just a vibe. A foghorn-volume kind of vibe. But he's got what he needs, you know, and it isn't an ear-bending from me. You heard his little 'I don't need a destiny' spiel? Tough talking. Bet he loved his mom. He'll soldier on, whatever's thrown at him, sure enough. Irony is, that kind of resilience tends to catch the eye of the Powers That Be. They're suckers for a fighter – believe me, a little stubbornness goes a long way on the cosmic casting couch. The more pig-headed he is, the more fate'll hit him with, and the more they do to him, the more ornery he'll get." He regarded the large boots. "Wouldn't wanna be in his shoes. The coat, on the other hand..." Lorne grinned, then waved his hand. "Let's leave him to sleep it off. The natives'll be getting restless. And, tell you something, I've seen my future, and there's a Mai Tai in it."

"On with the show?" asked Ramone.

Lorne spread his hands, palms up, ready to segue into showman-like jazz hands. "What, you learned nothing from blondie here? The show must go on!"