Title: Unwelcome Changes
Author: R.C. Monkeytree
Rating: R
Summary: Spike, as an upstanding citizen? Yeah.
 
 

He thought that his cheekbones might crack and split his skin open if he'd smiled any wider. He clenched his jaw together and tried to focus on the multicolored, paisley curtains that hung behind the tiny, mousy man with a budding horseshoe bald spot. The man peered over his horned-rim glasses with dark, beady eyes. He cleared his throat and sat up straight, in a futile attempt to make himself look bigger and thus more important than he- an assistant manager for a rent-a-cop service - really is.

"William..." he stole a quick glance to the manila folder on his desk. "Byron, is it?"

"Aye, sir," Spike answered in a disgustingly cheerful tone.

The manager shuffled a few pieces of paper of little importance around on his grand mahogany desk. Spike hated guys like him. Slight, trivial little men who walked around with their noses up the elite's asses and the poor beneath their shoes. He would never even drink from a man like him- he'd just snap his neck and do the world a favor.

But of course, he wasn't Spike anymore. William the Bloody, the killer of two slayers and master wielder of railroad spikes existed no more. There was only William Byron, the well-mannered, upstanding citizen of the kingdom of Great Britain; who, by some puzzling blunder of the United States Immigration and Naturalization Services, had lost his rightful papers to remain in the country and was now an unfortunate, persecuted victim of D.C. political red tape. Translation: yet another illegal immigrant working below the minimum wage for the Stockford & Sons Security Systems.

"Very well," the man sighed thickly through his wheezing lungs and stamped Spike's personnel folder. "You wanted night shifts?"

"Yes, sir," he took great care to speak with correct upper-class London accent. "You see, I've got this condition-"

"Yeah, who gives a fuck?" The man dismissed him with a wave of his pudgy fingers. Spike forced down the urge to lunge across the table and grip him by the neck and shake him senseless.

"Report to the Southern Warehouse District tomorrow night at 8," the manager carelessly tossed Spike's files back at him. "Don't be late."

Spike wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around the manager's flabby neck and choke the life out of him.

Instead, he flashed him a prize-winning grin, thanked him for his time and said goodbye.

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Vampires, being a member of the living dead, could naturally do without some functionalities required of living beings- say, breathing. But at that moment, Spike could swear that the heavy cloud that wafted through the dimly lit hallway was toxic and damaging to even his dead lungs.

The low, yellow glow of swaying light bulbs only aided the smoke in creating a curtain of dense fog you could only imagine existed in stories about Jack the Ripper lurking about in 19th century London.

This was where he called home, along with twenty-two other citizens who dwelled within the hole its proprietors dared to call an apartment building. The hallways were perpetually enveloped in a sea of gray haze, accompanied by some various interesting scents- from run of the mill cigarettes smoke to the more peculiar smell of burning flesh. It was also not unusual to spot a fresh, red, wet liquid stain splattered across the crumbling plaster walls.

Spike ambled down the hallway, his black boots clunking thickly against the floorboards, towards the literally rat-infested home he paid seventy dollars a week for. The crypt was a much better home. But of course, William Byron would never be a squatter in a crypt.

A door to his right jerked open, and a slender man with cloudy eyes and jittery hands popped his head out.

"Oh- hey, Will." The man grinned boyishly as he glanced nervously up and down the hallway.

"Matthew." Spike slapped his hand against Matthew's. Exchanging pleasantries with humans- Spike wondered what Drusilla would say if she saw him now.

"Had a killer party last night," Matthew sniffed and thumbed his nose habitually. "Missed ya there."

"Next time, mate."

"Gonna hold you to that." Much to Spike's dismay, Matthew stepped out into the hallway. He was tired, and he wanted to go home. "Wanna hit the clubs later?"

"No, I'm beat."

"You're not going to just sit there and think about what's-her-name, are you?"

"Scout's honor," Spike raised his hand.

"Good," Matthew nodded. "Well- I gotta get back." Matthew disappeared into the darkness and the door shut with a quiet click.

Spike continued on his way and reached the narrow door with peeling black paint at the end of the hallway. He turned the knob and pushed the door open- nobody in the building locked their doors. It had nothing to do with neighborly trust, it's just that- what was the point of locking your door when you knew your neighbor's five year old son could pick it open with a paper clip, blindfolded?

The apartment was cramped, even though it had little in possession. It had a rickety spring bed, a night table beside it and a wobbly table at the center of the room accompanied by two shaky chairs marred with scars and dents. a small fridge that hummed loudly in the corner next to the kitchenette and a door beside it led to a small room that was supposed to be a bathroom. Two rats were munching away on a moldy green cheese on the fridge, they paused to look at Spike when he came in, then went back to their meal.

Spike toed off his shoes and crashed down onto the small bed. He curled up and stared out into the quiet night through the scratched-up windows. It looked peaceful enough. But Spike knew that in this part of Sunnydale, there were monsters lurking about in the dark looking for their prey- and not all of them were demons.

He felt the urge to break loose of this claustrophobic hole and head down towards the Bronze and swipe a drink when the owner wasn't looking or the demon bars for a game of kitten-poker. As quickly as the thoughts entered his head, he pushed them out. You're not Spike, he reminded himself. William.

He sighed and rolled onto his back. He wondered what it is he did to pass the time on nights like these.

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He was watching her.

So she stepped to the window and pushed aside the half-closed curtains in silent invitation.

He had her in his arms in an instant, kissing her furiously with want and need.

When she remembered her senses, she pushed him back and crossed her arms like a petulant child.

"I thought I told you to leave town," Buffy said icily.

"Well, never was very good at following orders."

"Get out."

"Now, now, luv." He began tugging at his t-shirt. "I've got better ideas."

"W- what are you doing?!" She did her best impression of a shocked, proper lady. He knew better, and chuckled lowly.

"What's it look like?" He carelessly tossed his black shirt into the corner, coincidentally- she supposed- over Mr. Gordo's innocent eyes.

"If you think for a moment that I'm going to do *that* with you again, you are seriously-"

"Take off your shirt," he interrupted as he started work on his jeans.

She meant to push him out the window, but instead found her hands unbuttoning her shirt.

"Those too," he nodded towards her pajama pants.

She obediently kicked off her pajama pants and underwear, and stood before him, waiting. He took a deliberate pause in admiring her before roughly shoving her onto her bed. It was wrong. She had to stop him. But it's been so long since they'd last-

He traveled south, and she lost all thoughts.

"Spike," she moaned. "Please-"

"Tell me," he murmured.

"Huh?"

"TELL me," he said forcefully, gripping her hips hard, sending a wave of pain/pleasure through her.

"Tell you-"

"I've got to hear it." There was warning in his voice, and he lifted himself up to her level, staring at her coldly with the promise of desertion.

"I... I love you."

"That's what I thought." He kissed her, deeply. When he pulled back, she found herself staring into an inhuman face. Before she could scream, he sunk his teeth into her.

Buffy awoke with a startled scream. She was fully dressed, alone, and damp between the legs. A dream. Just a dream. She shook her head vigorously in a futile attempt to shake the memories away.

It took her a few seconds to realize that she wasn't in her room. No. Mom's room, she remembered. She had given her room to Willow because, well...

She shook her head again. She didn't want to be thinking about Tara, or Willow and certainly not Spike. She kicked off the covers and went down to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of milk while she rummaged through the fridge for Dawn's breakfast. The refrigerator was sparsely populated with condiments, opened jars of perishables and chocolates and junk food. Nothing remotely nutritional in sight, as it always was in the Summers home ever since Joyce's passing.

"Buffy?"

There was Dawn in the doorway, hair mussed and sleepy-eyed.

"Dawn. What are you doing up?"

"I heard you scream," Dawn wearily walked into the kitchen, as if she expected a grotesque monster to leap out of any dark corner.

"Oh. That- I just had a dream. Everything's okay."

"Well, what was it?" Dawn slid into one of the stools situated next to the kitchen island.

"It was..." so not going to go there. "It was just a dream. It doesn't matter." Buffy was dying for a subject change. "So- we're severely lacking in breakfast foods. Well, really, all kinds of food in general. I'm going to make a quick run to the grocery later, what do you want for breakfast?"

"I don't want anything."

"Dawn, you can't go without-"

"Would you hold the sermon?" Dawn rolled her eyes in her teenage ways. "I'm just going to snag a pop-tart from Janice in homeroom."

"Oh. Well, I guess that's okay. I mean, as long as Janice doesn't mind."

"Oh, no," the younger Summers said dismissively with a roll of her head. "Janice is like, totally going through this anorexic/bulimic phase. She won't eat anything one day and throw everything up the next." Catching her sister's look, she quickly added, "not like I'm like that. At all. I'm fine. No disgusting eating disorders here."

"Good. Stay that way."

She expected her to go back upstairs, but instead Dawn shuffled and folded her hands- stalling, waiting on the right moment to breech a sensitive subject.

"I saw Spike," she finally said.

"Oh." A hundred different emotions lurked beneath her stoic voice.

"I saw what you did to him."

Buffy didn't look at her sister.

"Did he tell you that?"

"No- he didn't have to," Dawn shrugged. "It's not like he'd ever let anyone else do that to him."

The truth of her words stung, and Buffy scrambled for recovery.

"Yeah, especially with that chip out of his head."

Dawn narrowed her eyes in quizzical wonder, trying to discern whether the announcement was true or not.

"I don't believe you," she declared.

"You don't have to believe me, but it's still true."

"Well, I want him to tell me himself."

"Dawn, listen to me." Buffy leaned forward across the counter. "You need to stay away from him."

"Why?"

"Why? Hello, evil, soulless vampire!"

"He'd never hurt me."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

"Dawn, he hurt me- he could hurt you too."

"No, he wouldn't." Strong. Firm. Dawn's eyes were as cold as steel and her voice carried the conviction her sister lacked.

"You are not to go near him, you understand?"

The younger Summers's temper flared at the order. She trained her eyes on Buffy.

"Try and stop me."

Buffy found herself staring into a pair of hazel eyes, inflamed with life and defiance. It was a look she'd been long accustomed to. How many times, after a screaming match, thundering steps and a slammed door, had she looked into the mirror and found those same eyes, staring back with hot fury.

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"Southern gate?"

"Yes, sir."

"North gate?"

"Yes."

"East gate?"

"Check."

"West gate?"

"Check."

The plump night officer scrutinized the new kid with a wary eye. He tugged at his slipping belt around his hefty midsection and rubbed his sweaty palms together. He wiped one wet hand along his small, midnight-blue uniform which bulged and tightened in all the wrong places. He resembled something like an overripe blueberry.

"Are you sure you locked the North gate?"

"Yes, sir." He'd taken care to lock the gates, just like he had every night since he'd started the job two weeks ago.

"You turned the key?"

"Yeah." William does not get mad at trivialities.

"You heard it click?"

"...Yeah." Williams does not get mad at repetition.

"Tugged the padlock?"

"It's locked." William does not get mad at inane questioning.

"Are you sure?"

William does not get mad at stupid, simpering human IDIOTS who deserved to be dinner for a gang of blood thirsty vampires.

"Okay, then," Sergeant Blueberry said approvingly before Spike could really let it rip. "You can go."

"Thank you... SIR."

"William?"

Spike froze in his steps, but didn't turn around. He was afraid of what bodily harm he might cause the fine Blueberry if he did.

"You've done a fine job here tonight," Blueberry said approvingly. "But do something that goddamn hair, will ya? You look like a damn faggot."

Spike half-turned, gave a half-hearted smile and bowed out. All the while cursing inwardly with all the filth he could think of.

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Buffy Summers had stared down demons, prevented countless apocalypses, and survived two- nearly three- deaths. She even defeated a Hell God. But finally, the time has come when she had to admit defeat. She had lost. She took a deep breath, collected herself and prepared herself for the worst.

"Do you want Rice Krispies or Count Chocula?" she asked her sister.

And with that, she had lost the Silent Treatment War that had been raging on in the Summers home.

"Whatever," Dawn gave a small shrug.

"Rice Krispies it is," Buffy said cheerfully. They gravely continued down the cereal aisle in silence. "Dawn," Buffy started. But she caught the aggravated look on her sister's face. "Forget it."

A right turn, and they began marching down the next aisle. God bless Giles's guilty conscience- he'd insisted on giving her steady checks till she found a better job, on the condition that she attended at least one class at the community college per week.

"Went by the crypt," Dawn began casually. Buffy knew that she was trying to goad her into another argument. Well, she'd take the higher road.

"Is that so?" she studied the label of generic baked beans can. Nobody in the house ate baked beans.

"Yep." Dawn fiddled around with the corn.

"How did that go?" she pushed the cart further down the aisle.

"He wasn't there."

"Oh? Did he leave?" She didn't care. No, not at all. She nervously fingered a random bag of pistachios as she awaited for Dawn's answer.

"No. He's still in town." She spotted a box of instant hot chocolate mix and dropped it into the cart. Buffy frowned at Dawn's choice.

"That's not in the budget," Buffy took out the box and put it back on the shelves.

"Clem was there though. He's taken over the crypt. Did some redecorating. It looks nice. Lots of yellow." Dawn picked up a bag of marshmallows and placed those into the cart.

"Good for him." Buffy took out the marshmallows too.

"Told me some interesting things." This time, she chose a can of Pringles. Buffy arched an eyebrow at the new item. "He likes those too."

"In that case..." of course, the Pringles went back on the shelves too.

"I don't suppose you're interested in what he had to say?"

"Nope."

"Didn't think so."

Walking ahead, Dawn proceeded towards the checkout line, a cryptic smile spreading over her face.

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Someone was pounding at the door.

Spike drew his covers up over his head and hoped that the uninvited visitor would finally get the hint and leave. They didn't.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Deep, dull knockings that echoed through the empty hallway.

Spike sleepily poked his head out and glanced at the clock- half past noon. It was midnight for him.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Slow, regulated and precise.

"Sod off!"

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Doing all he could to keep his rage and demon in check, Spike threw off the covers and hopped out of bed. He stalked to the door and violently ripped open the door-

"What the bloody hell-" he trailed off as he recognized his visitor.

His brows furrowed as he gaped at the visitor with confusion and surprise. It was the last person he'd been expecting.

"Angel?"

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NOTE: I know there's some jumping of time between some of the sections of this chapter. Let me know if it's too confusing.