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Author's Chapter Notes:
Betad as always by seapealsh and dawnofme :)
Chapter Two

The next few days carried on as the preceding ones had. They all followed the same format. Good intentions were never acted upon. The all encompassing lethargy that had surrounded Spike for so long, maintained its strong hold on him. The flat didn’t get cleaned. He never managed to climb out of bed before noon and he went outside only to buy food.

The only thing that he did without fail was to send a text message to his parents once every fortnight to let them know that he was okay. It was a lie – they knew it and he knew it – but at least it told them that he was alive. They had given up trying to get him to come home or visiting him at his flat when Spike made it more than plain that they weren’t welcome. They made sure that his rent and utilities were paid and just hoped that he would come through it.

There was a sharp rap at the door. Spike looked up in surprise. No one ever knocked at the door.

Shit! Has the bank refused payment for my rent?

He decided that the best course of action was simply to ignore it. He rolled over on the bed and closed his eyes. The rap turned into a pounding that shook the door on its hinges.

Oh, fuck off!

Spike pulled the pillow over his head to block out the noise.

“Spike! Come on, man. I know that you’re in there!”

Spike sat up quickly. Oz?

“For God’s sake, Spike. Answer the freaking door!”

Spike looked around in panic.

Christ, the place is disgusting.

He got off the bed and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt before picking up a £10 note and some coins from the counter. He stuffed them in his pocket and walked to the door.

No way is Oz coming in here. Last time I saw him I was…I was…

His mind wandered back to the morning after the debacle at the reunion. He’d called Buffy’s cell but it was turned off and when he called her home, her mom had picked up and told him that Buffy had asked him to give her some space. Joyce sounded cold and Spike could understand why. He tried to explain but Joyce had cut him off, telling him that it wasn’t actually anything to do with her and that it was up to Buffy what she did or didn’t do.

“I need to see her, Joyce,” Spike pleaded. “I’m coming over.”

“She’s not in, Spike. I’m not just saying that. She went out with an old friend that she met at the reunion,” said Joyce sternly. “She was very upset when she got home last night.”

“I know, I know. I messed up but I love her, Joyce. Did…did she go out with that Liam or Angel or whatever the prick was called?”

He winced as the connection was severed. He banged his head slowly against the wall. Why the hell had he said that? Sodding idiot!

Spike decided to go to Buffy’s home and if her mom wouldn’t let him wait inside then he’d wait on the street. He called a cab. He’d had enough of bloody walking after the night before. When he got in the cab, his heart was pounding fit to burst. He had to make it right. He leaned forward in his seat, looking out the front window as they turned onto the street where Buffy lived.

“Stop! Pull over here!” Spike yelled.

The cabbie glanced at him in his rear view mirror but pulled in to the curb. “I thought you wanted to be at the other end of the street?”

“Shut up!” howled Spike.

His eyes were fixed on the sight of a red Ferrari parked in front of Buffy’s house. As he sat there, he saw the git from last night walk to the car, get in and drive away, revving the engine in the irritating way that people who own ‘super cars’ always do. Spike’s heart fell to his boots. That was the friend that Buffy had been out with? No wonder that Joyce hadn’t wanted to tell him. There was no way that he could compete with that.

“Um…I’ve changed my mind. Can you take me back, please?”

Spike’s voice sounded so utterly defeated that the cabbie stared at him in his rear view mirror, and was worried at how pale his fare had become.

“Are you okay, buddy?”

Spike slumped back in his seat. “Yeah, just take me home.”

The cabbie shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

Spike got the cab to stop at a liquor store and wait for him. He ran out clutching the brown paper bag as if it were precious; which in a way it was. Spike needed oblivion and he needed it fast. He felt like he was going insane. God, it hurt so much. He climbed back in and five minutes later, he was outside his apartment. He gave the cabbie a large tip and went inside.

Oz was out – he was at work, like Spike should be. Spike grabbed a glass from a kitchen cupboard and sat on the sofa. He stared at the bottle of Jack Daniels for a moment before he unscrewed the top and sloshed a large measure into the glass.

“Cheers, Jack,” he said, raising his glass to the bottle.

The tears that he’d been fighting since he’d seen the bleeder’s car suddenly were unstoppable. He knocked back the liquor in a couple of swallows before burying his head in his hands and crying like a baby. How had he fucked up so badly? Not just in what he’d done last night, but in thinking that Buffy was The One in the first place. He had thought that they’d be together forever – soul mates.

“Huh!”

He didn’t bother with the glass and just swigged from the bottle. His heart felt as if a piece of it had died.

By the time that Oz got home that evening, Spike was a complete mess. He was totally wasted and sprawled on his bed. Oz could smell the liquor as he walked in, and he groaned. Didn’t go well, then.

“Hey, buddy,” Oz said as he walked into Spike’s bedroom.

Spike raised his head and opened a bloodshot eye. “Oh, God, Oz. I’ve lost her. I fucked up and I’ve lost her.” He sobbed.

“She’ll calm down, Spike. She’ll come around.”

“She’s been out with that poncey git already,” replied Spike, letting his head flop back on the pillow.

“You don’t know that for sure. I thought you said that Joyce wouldn’t tell you who she’d gone with.”

Without opening his eyes, Spike reached for the bottle of Jack that was on the floor next to the bed. His fingers found it without fumbling and Oz correctly guessed that that movement had been repeated several times. Spike raised his head just enough to gulp a mouthful without choking. He put the bottle down and shook his head, groaning as the movement made the room spin.

“I went over. I saw him. Large as life and twice as ugly!” Spike giggled bitterly.

“Shit!” exclaimed Oz before he could stop it escaping his lips.

“Yeah! Shit.”

Spike’s hand reached out but met only air. He opened his eyes and rolled over to peer at the floor. He was puzzled for a moment before he looked at Oz, and saw that he was holding the bottle.

“Hey, that’s mine. Get your own,” he whined, holding his hand out for the bottle.

“No. I really think that you've had enough. More than enough,” said Oz firmly.

Spike rarely drank more than a few beers. Oz smiled ruefully. He wouldn’t want to be Spike’s head in the morning.

Spike sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He stared up at Oz. “I don’t think I can take this. I really don’t.”

The scary thing was that Oz agreed with him. He knew that Spike worshipped Buffy and had put her on a pedestal so high that she was never going to be able to live up to it. But Oz had never thought that the two of them weren’t for keeps. He’d thought that Buffy felt, at least almost as deeply, for Spike as he did for her. Oz gazed at his friend and feared for him. But surely it would blow over - surely they’d get back together?

Oz sat on the bed beside Spike, carefully keeping the bottle of Jack out of his reach. He put his arm around Spike and was shocked when he clung to him and sobbed. The old English stiff upper lip had bypassed Spike. He wore his heart on his sleeve. That’s what made him such a good songwriter – he bared his soul. Oz knew that Spike was destined for success and hoped that the meeting with the label next week would give Spike something to focus on.

Oz held Spike until he fell asleep and then laid him down, pulling the covers over him. “I hope to God that you work this out,” he whispered as he walked out of the bedroom. He thought of calling Buffy, but a glance at his watch told him that it was way too late.

Spike woke up when the army of Genghis Khan began galloping through his head.

“Oh, shite.”

A wave of nausea hit him and he staggered to the bathroom, making it just in time. He was splashing some cold water over his face after feeling like he’d just turned himself inside out, when the doorbell rang. He squinted at his watch. Nine thirty on a Sunday morning? Whoever it was ought to be shot! He walked unsteadily to the door and leaned a hand on the frame before opening it.

A good looking, well dressed man stood on the other side of it. Spike, even in his extremely hung over state, was suddenly all too aware of his crumpled, slept in clothes.

“William Pratt?” said the suit loudly.

Spike winced at both the volume and the use of his real name.

“Yeah.”

“Got a letter for you.”

The suit handed a large stiff envelope to Spike who took it dazedly.

“What is it?” Spike asked.

“I don’t know. I’m just delivering it.” The suit began to walk away.

“Wait! Who’s it from?” said Spike, taking a step after him.

The suit turned. “I suggest that you open it and read it, sir. Then you’ll have your answers.” With a smug smile, the suit turned back around and walked away.

“Git,” muttered Spike, walking back into the apartment.

He went and sat on the sofa before ripping the top from the envelope and taking out the single sheet of paper from inside it. He read it three times before the words made sense to him.

“The absolute bastard,” Spike whispered.

The letter was from the Ferrari driving, girlfriend stealing, Liam O’Connor. He’d found out that Spike was actually perilously close to the permitted duration of the visa on his passport. Spike had mentioned it to the scout when they’d made the appointment, wanting to be upfront about it and had told him that his renewal application was being processed. The scout had assured Spike that the label would help out as much as they could to ensure that it was successful. But now, it seemed that Buffy’s darling ‘Angel’ had a few friends in Immigration, and if Spike didn’t get out of the county today, then Angel would press charges for the assault and see to it that Spike would be kicked out and never be allowed into the States again.

Spike crumpled up the letter and shoved it in his pocket. Without Buffy, what was the point of staying here anyway? He went to his bedroom, took out a holdall and stuffed some clothes into it. He made sure that he had his passport and wallet, and then paused only long enough to write a note to Oz and leave some money in lieu of notice for leaving the apartment, before calling a cab and going to LAX airport.

He was on a plane to London Heathrow within the hour. The first flight leaving after he arrived at the airport had a standby seat available. Spike was in the air before Oz even woke up.

“Spike! Fucking open the door!” yelled Oz, startling Spike as he pounded on the door again.

Oz rarely swore and so his cursing jolted Spike enough to open the door.

“Christ,” said Oz as he laid eyes on his friend.

Spike smiled weakly. “Hi, Oz.” He carefully made sure that he held the door close behind him so that Oz couldn’t see inside the flat.

“I fly over from L.A. and all you say is ‘hi’?” said Oz with a smile. He couldn’t believe how awful Spike looked and felt terrible for not coming over sooner. “Are you going to at least offer to make me some coffee?”

Spike glanced quickly over his shoulder – the flat didn’t look any better than it had two minutes before. “Um…I haven’t got any milk. There’s a Starbucks just on the corner.” He stepped outside and began to pull the door shut but was stopped when Oz firmly placed a hand on the door and pushed it wide open. “Look, it’s just…I mean…it’s not…”

Oz walked inside and looked around the shabby and extremely untidy flat. “Oh, man!”

Spike opened his mouth to try to say something in his defence but another glance at the flat convinced him that there was no point. He ran his hand through his hair and grimaced. When had he last had it cut or even washed it? His face flushed with shame.

“I’ve just got up. I…er…was just going to grab a shower,” said Spike.

Oz shook his head and went to sit on the stool near the kitchen counter until he felt how wobbly it was. “God, Spike. Look at you! How can you live like this?” He gestured around the flat. “It stinks! When did you last take out the trash?”

“Um…I keep forgetting,” mumbled Spike lamely.

“What? Like for the past month?”

“Look, it’s not like I was expecting anyone to come round,” said Spike defensively.

“I think that trip to Starbucks might not be a bad idea. You go and get your shower and I’ll…er…I’ll sit here,” said Oz, hitching his ass onto the stool and just praying that it’d take his weight.

“Oh, okay,” said Spike.

He stood for a moment before pulling himself together and going to the tiny bathroom. Once in the shower, Spike was torn between taking a long time and enjoying the feeling of getting clean, or having as quick a one as possible to get Oz out of the flat.

Ten minutes later and Spike re-emerged. He had a large towel wrapped around his waist. Oz stared at how thin Spike was. He had always been slim but now there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Oz had never seen Spike’s hair so long. It was curling as it dried and all but the ends of it were light brown – Spike’s natural colour, obviously.

Spike glanced over his shoulder at Oz and smiled weakly. He opened his wardrobe and, to his relief, he quickly spotted a clean pair of jeans. He didn’t have so much luck with a shirt. The only one that he could find was so crumpled that even he didn’t think that he could wear it. Only one problem. He didn’t have an iron – he’d left it turned on one day and it had burned a hole through the cover on the ironing board and gotten ruined. He had been lucky that it hadn’t burnt the place down.

Spike turned to Oz. “Um…” He glanced at his shirt. God, this is embarrassing. What’s he doing here anyway? A large part of Spike wished that Oz would just piss off and leave him alone.

Oz bent down and opened the bag at his feet. Spike hadn’t even noticed him carry it in. Oz took out a dark blue, button down long sleeved shirt and wordlessly handed it to Spike.

“I’m not wearing your sodding shirt,” snapped Spike, mortified that Oz would have to offer him one. He turned back to the wardrobe. “I’ve got one in here…just need to do a bit of washing is all.”

He began to rummage through the clothes that had fallen off hangers and were in a pile at the bottom of it. He jumped when Oz laid a hand on his shoulder and spun back around.

“Hey,” said Oz, backing up a step and holding his hands out. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Spike felt his face colour up. Could I seem any more like a bloody nutter? “It’s all right. Just didn’t expect it.”

“Look, Spike. The shirt is yours, not mine,” said Oz.

“What do you mean it’s mine? I don’t want your bleeding charity!”

Oz gritted his teeth. He felt like shaking his friend. “It’s not charity, you dope. It’s your shirt. You left it behind.”

“Oh,” said Spike weakly. “Sorry.”

Oz turned and picked up the shirt. “Just put it on, okay? Then we can go to that coffee shop. I really think that we need to talk, Spike.”

Spike took the shirt without meeting Oz’s eye and put it on. He couldn’t fail to notice that it was now too big for him. He found a pair of socks – well, two socks - and pushed his feet into his boots, quickly fastening the laces.

“Okay, let’s go.” He took the tenner and coins out of the pocket of the dirty jeans and finally looked at Oz.

Oz smiled at him and together they left the flat and walked to the nearest Starbucks. Spike insisted on paying for the coffees and tried not to wince at the cost of them. He was acutely aware that he had no income and lived on as little as possible to try to lessen the burden on his parents. When he had first returned to England, they had told him that they would support him until he was back on his feet. Their pride meant that they didn’t want him to claim benefits from the state.

Oz noticed that Spike walked past several empty tables and opted for one in the corner at the back, sliding into the seat that faced the wall. Oz sat opposite and stared hard at Spike.

“What?” asked Spike, squirming under his scrutiny.

Oz shook his head slowly. “I just hardly recognise you, man.”

Spike tried a smile and rubbed his left hand through his still damp hair. “Should get it cut, I suppose.”

Oz took a sip of his coffee. He hadn’t really believed Spike’s parents when they said what a mess Spike was. He’d been in touch with them fairly regularly since Spike had fled the States. Once Spike’s parents had an address for him, Oz had written many times but had never had a reply.

“I’m not talking about the hair, Spike,” sighed Oz. “I’m talking about you.”

Spike let his eyes drop to his hands. He wrapped them around the mug and twirled it around. This is why he hated seeing his folks – he couldn’t bear to see how disappointed in him they were.

“’M okay,” he muttered.

“Spike, you so are not!”

Spike began to rise from his chair. He didn’t need this shit. He felt Oz’s hand firmly grasp his elbow. “You’re not running away again. You’re gonna hear what I have to say,” said Oz firmly. Spike tried to shrug his hand off. “I mean it, Spike. We’ve got to talk.”

Spike glanced at Oz’s face and quailed at the expression on it. Just like his parents. He flopped back down and sighed deeply. Better let him get it off his chest.

“When was the last time that you ate a decent meal?”

“Huh?” Spike hadn’t expected him to ask that.

“It’s not a trick question.”

“I know, I know,” grumbled Spike, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. Does toast constitute proper food?

“Does the fact that you’re having to think so hard not tell you something about yourself?” said Oz. “Jeez, buddy. I wish I’d come over sooner.”

“Not like you could just drop everything and fly over, is it? You never can get time off without giving notice.”

Spike tilted his head as Oz looked at him peculiarly. “What now?”

“Spike, you’ve been home almost four months. I only need to give a month’s notice.”

Four months? Had it been that long? No, surely not. I mean, still being like this and thinking of her everyday after four months…Oh, shite – it’s never going to get any better.

Oz could tell by Spike’s face that he hadn’t a clue how long it had been. “Do you even know what day it is?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah, ‘course I bleeding do!” snapped Spike. Thursday? No, it’s Friday – I’m sure that it’s Friday.

Oz just stared at him with a ‘sure you do’ look on his face.

“Look, this is stupid. What difference does what day it is make? So what if it’s sodding Friday?”

“Tuesday.”

“What?” Bollocks!

Oz smiled. “It’s Tuesday, Spike and it’s your birthday.”

“Oh,” sighed Spike. “Okay, I’m a fucking mess. I admit it. But I can’t help it, Oz. It’s just too hard.”

“You can’t carry on like this. You’ve got to move on. Get on with your life. Your parents –”

“So is that why you’ve come?” interrupted Spike, rigid with anger. “My parents want you to kick their freeloading son’s arse into gear? Fed up with forking out cash for me, are they?” His temper died as quickly as it had flared up. He put his head in his hands. “Can’t blame them. They must be disgusted with me.”

“What do you mean – freeloading?” asked Oz.

Spike looked up. “Well, I haven’t had a job since I came back. Is it really four months? And they wouldn’t let me sign on for welfare. Christ, they haven’t got a lot of money, Oz. How could I do it to them? I’m a fucking waste of space.” No wonder Buffy didn’t want me.

“Do you actually bother to open any of your mail?”

Spike’s heart soared. Is that why Oz had come to see him? “Why, has Buffy written?”

“Er…I don’t know,” replied Oz, watching with dismay as the hope in Spike’s eyes faded. “I haven’t heard from her since a week after you left.”

“You spoke to her? What did she say?” Spike leant forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“She just asked if I had your address, which I hadn’t back then.”

“So she wanted to get in touch?” Hope shone in Spike’s eyes again.

“I won’t kid you, buddy. When I told her you’d gone back to England, she said that it was probably for the best.”

Probably. Part of Spike’s mind leapt on it. Probably didn’t mean definitely. There was still a chance, maybe. Then he realised that that was four months ago and tried to force himself to accept that although for him time had stood still, that no way would she have not moved on. He just stared back down at his cup and willed himself not to bleeding cry in front of Oz in a sodding Starbucks.

“Um…you said something about opening my post. If it wasn’t because of…” He swallowed hard. “Why did you ask?”

“It’s because you’re not freeloading off your folks, Spike. You’ve got money coming in.”

“I have? I don’t get it – I mean – how?”

“Remember how you sold a few songs?” Spike nodded. “Well, one of them hit the number one spot about a month after you left. It was only there for a week but every time it’s played on the radio, you get royalties. Some others have been getting airplay too. Your parents repeatedly tried to tell you but you just shut yourself off and in the end, they got in touch with me. I’ve sort of become your agent or manager. You’ve got money, Spike. You don’t have to live like you are now.”

Spike tried to get excited about the fact that his songs had done so well but he just couldn’t. He knew which songs that he had sold and he knew that he’d written them about Buffy. He could hardly bear even to think of them.

“Remember how you had the meeting planned at the record label?” said Oz.

How could he forget? It was the same day that he’d lost Buffy. Spike nodded mutely.

“They’ve been in touch every month since you left. They even paid for my flight over here. They want to talk to you, Spike. They want your songs and they really want you to sing them.” Oz sat back waiting for Spike’s reaction. This is what Spike had dreamt of the whole time that he was in the States.

Spike rose sharply from his seat, the chair scraping on the floor as he did. He shook his head. “No,” he whispered before bolting for the door.

“Spike!” yelled Oz, causing all the customers to stare. “Crap!”

He jumped up and ran after Spike. He was furious with his friend. Spike’s family had let him have his own way these past few months but Oz was damned if he was going to let his friend waste his life for any longer. The time for pussy-footing about was over. Oz caught up with Spike about fifty yards away from Starbucks. He grabbed his arm and then ducked as Spike lashed out.

“Christ, Spike! Just listen to me for a goddamn minute!”

Oz wasn’t very tall, but he was strong and given how skinny Spike currently was, he outweighed him, too. He grabbed Spike’s other arm and shook him. “Stop running away, Spike!”

“I’m not running away,” shouted Spike.

Oz raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, I am, but, you know? So sodding what?”

Oz gritted his teeth. “I swear to God, I’ll punch you in a minute and I won’t freaking miss like you did.”

Spike shrugged off Oz’s grip and scowled at him. “I just want to be left alone!” He turned and began to walk away.

Oz ran in front of him and almost did what he had promised, but instead of punching Spike, Oz planted his hands on his chest and pushed hard. Taken by surprise, Spike stumbled backwards, tripped over his feet and fell down, scattering shoppers as he did. The two men glared at each other for a moment before Oz held out his hand to Spike. After a second, Spike took it and let Oz help him to his feet. He rubbed his arse. God, that bloody hurts. He glanced at Oz and found that he was struggling not to laugh at him.

“’S not funny,” muttered Spike, before starting to chuckle himself, and soon the two of them were laughing helplessly.

“Where’s the nearest place to get a decent meal?” asked Oz as they regained control. “Your ass wouldn’t be so sore if it had a bit more meat on it.”

“Hey,” protested Spike half-heartedly.

“And I meant what I said – that we need to talk. We need to get organised.”

“Organised?”

“Yes, on Saturday you’re flying back to L.A. with me.”

TBC


Chapter End Notes:
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