"Spike."  That voice, that tone, and Spike staggered back a step, shaking his head.  Looked down and realized he was standing in something.  *A desk?  I'm - what the bloody HELL is going on?*  He looked up in utter confusion, and stared at Angel - at his circle of pet humans.

                "Oh, fucking hell,"  he moaned.

 

 

                The weeks that followed were...   Painful just seemed too small a word to express what he was feeling.  Fading in and out like a bad radio transmission; feeling himself being drawn somewhere, and it was a frightening place.  Frightening and somehow familiar and it wanted, wanted him.  Unable to touch...  That was the worst.  He'd spent years, in Sunnydale, touching and being touched only in violence.  Never with affection, or camaraderie, or with simple care.  Except for that short time with the 'bot, and the first few times with Buffy.  But at least there had been contact, of a sort.   Now - now he ached for any touch at all, and wandered the Wolfram and Hart building at all hours, hungrily watching the various humans and demons go about their work-a-day routines and wishing, desperately, for any tiny thing.  A fight, even an argument.  Something that said he was there, he was real, not just a remnant from the final battle, fading out even as he struggled for cohesion. 

                And then that day - light - and he was solid again, real again - and he took up the first willing body and had it - had her, closing his eyes and just feeling...everything.  But that ended nastily, and the next thing he knew, he was locked in battle with Angel - fighting again, and his heart was aching in his chest.  It all ended...on a rather anticlimactic note, and he curled himself into the small space he'd found in a deserted office; back and sides and feet and arms pressed into the corner between posh leather sofa and faux-textured wall.  Wanting the solidity of something around him - wanting to fall into exhausted sleep feeling, even if it was only plaster and carpet and the skin of a dead cow.  At least it was touch, and that's better than nothing.

                More days, of nothing at all - of struggling to find something - somewhere - to be or do.  But Angel only wants to ignore him and the others are afraid of him, or mistrustful, and he has no place here.  He contemplates any number of things - contemplates even going to find the Scoobies.  And, as if thinking of them makes it so, suddenly there they are.  Come for a visit, or for advice - for something.  Spike isn't sure, because he's in the corner quietly breaking into pieces.  Because it's true.  That thing, that he so cheerfully acknowledged down in the pit of the First's final stand. 

                "I love you."

                "No you don't.  But thanks for saying it."

                It had been all right, then.  Didn't matter that she didn't love him, because he was dead; finally and again and for all time, and she wasn't and she was going to go on, she was going to live the life she'd dreamed of for so long.  Not the only girl in all the world, anymore.  Never alone again.  And he...he would be someplace else.  Someplace...nice, or at least quiet, because he'd done the right thing.  After all these years, and all the blood and terror, he'd done it just right.

                But now, yanked back into the world like a bloody yo-yo, and it's hitting him harder than Angel ever did.  She doesn't love him.  Never has.  Never will.  And he doesn't think he can take this pain on top of all the other pain.  On top of just - everything.  The curious but ultimately dismissive glances of the three or four Potentials that are milling around the office.  The shocked, agitated - afraid looks he's getting from the witch and the Watcher and that little blond boy with the camera.  Buffy's look...the one that quite clearly says "What in hell do we do with him NOW", as if he is an unexpected dog or a demanding old uncle.  Harris, over by the windows, not looking at him.  He's not wanted, in any way, and even the first amazed questions of how and when don't cover that they're all thinking the same thing.

                Only that girl, that Fred, is quietly saying that he saved them all - sacrificed himself for them all - but she's being talked around - talked over - and she shoots him a frustrated, furious glance as he makes his way out the door.  As he closes it behind him, he hears Angel: "We don't know if we can trust him.  Without the chip -"   and his heart, that is already crazed and fissured with the hammer-blows of the day, cracks into dust.         

                *Out of here, oh god, OUT of here...just go...*  He flees, downward, to the little courtyard off one side of the building.  A tree-shaded, sunken area for the employees to have a smoke or their lunch.  It's on the eastern face of the building - shadowed by the bulk of the skyscraper and further darkened by the tall sycamore and maple planted there.  He's safe here, until true dark.  He feels over the pockets of his duster and swears quietly - no cigarettes yet, and his lighter long gone.  He crosses the courtyard to the place of deepest shadow and climbs up on a picnic table.  Hugs his arms around himself and huddles there. 

                *Never be enough.  Never give enough.  Never, ever, be the one...What you deserve, what you get, murderer and monster and rapist -*

                "Please stop," he whispers, tucking down, trying to hide.  When that comes over him it's like being down in the basement again - down by the Hellmouth again; those little flickers of himself, of his past...  It's something he hasn't told anyone about, not even Fred, because he's afraid that whatever the First did to him is forever, now.   He'll never get better and he'll always be crazy and he can see himself, talking to things that aren't there and seeing things that are dust and gone, for all the long years of his achingly empty life.  It terrifies him, because there isn't anyone to tell this to, and no one to care, and no one to watch out for him and he doesn't know, doesn't know at all, if he can do this alone.  He rocks himself ever so slightly, hunching lower and lower over his knees, not noticing the person moving across the courtyard to him - not noticing anything at all until a creak and shift and someone is settling on the table next to him.  He flinches and twists away - doesn't want to be seen like this - and the hand that was reaching for his shoulder hesitates - withdraws.

                "So - you practicing your brooding, or what?"  Harris, it's Harris - Xander, in those last desperate weeks.  An almost-friend, there at the end of the world.  Although what he is now is something Spike just doesn't know, and he sits rigidly, wondering what happens next - what the boy - the man - will say.

                "Spike -"  on a sigh, and Xander shifts a little on the table - elbows on knees, contemplating his work-boots or maybe the leaf-littered slate of the yard.  "You ok?"  And Spike has to laugh at that - a ragged and painful sort of laugh, that forces its way out past the terror and longing that seem to be choking him.

                "Oh, right as rain, me,"  he rasps out, and the laughter is suspiciously close to tears so he cuts it off - chokes it off and forces himself to sit up.  To assume the pose, the air, the studied look that's kept it all at bay for so long.  But Xander just looks at him, his single eye dark and darkly glittering with knowing, and Spike slumps again - looks away.  Remembers the day he and Xander had come to an understanding. 

                Down in the basement at Buffy's house, alone.    All the Potentials and the Witch and the Watcher - all the myriad occupants of the house out and about, doing their thing, and Xander suddenly at the foot of the stairs, his maimed face tense with anger and accusation.  There'd been yelling, and there'd been hitting, and finally there'd been talking.  Spike telling Xander exactly what had happened - every last miserable and scorching detail, from the very first dream to...  And telling him, too, what he'd felt - what'd he'd done next.  Telling him the story of the trip to Africa and the trials and the pain, the endless pain and confusion.  And how lost he had been - still was.  Not fitting in anywhere.  Still not a man, and still not a proper demon.  Nothing, again.  As usual.  He hadn't realized, until the warm human hands had taken his and pulled them away that he'd been clawing at his chest again.  Trying to get out that burning coal of intangible guilt that would never leave off.  He'd looked dazedly at his bloodied hands - at the mess he'd made of his chest - and felt shame.  But Xander had simply led him over to the utility sink and put his hands under the water - gently washed the blood and bits of skin away, and pressed a damp towel to his chest.   Stripping away the ruined shirt, cleaning the wound and leading him back to the cot.  Xander had found Spike's other shirt - laid it next to him and then crouched down, looking at him.  Forcing Spike to look back.  And - "I think I understand, Spike.  Buffy said - she forgave you.  You didn't do anything to me...not directly.  But I...forgive you too.  I don't know if we can ever be friends, but I don’t want to be enemies, anymore."    Truth, in those quiet words, and the man had walked away upstairs and Spike had felt the slow trickle of cold tears on his cheeks - had felt a curious lightness.  Something almost like happiness. 

                After that - they'd gotten along, better than they ever really had.  Worked together to defeat the First, and went into the final battle with a grin and a smirk and a nod - acknowledging the insanity of it all.  Saying  'see you on the other side, maybe' and than plunging in.

                Now he and Xander sit here in the gloom of the courtyard, and Spike wonders what happens next.

                "What're you doing out here?  Aren't you needed up there with the others?"  Spike asks finally, and Xander laughs, low chuckle.

                "They're up there debating what to do with you.  Wondering if you're just gonna start being William the Bloody all over again.  Trying to figure out...your life.  I don't need to sit through that again."  Spike flinches at the words, but then cocks his head, thinking.

                "What do you mean, again?  What -"

                "Oh, that 'we're really glad you gave up your eye and your girlfriend and most of your life for the cause but now we don't have any idea what to do with you' talk.  I got that a couple weeks ago.  They've all got plans - got things all figured out - but I don't fit in with any of their plans."  Xander stops talking - sighs and pushes his hand back through hair that has grown out a bit.  He's thinner than he was - sadder - and Spike replays what Xander just said back in his mind.

                "Demon-girl...didn't make it?"  he asks softly, and Xander sighs again.

                "No.  She...didn't.  Andrew says - she died saving him."  A soft snort of derision and Spike can feel a smile tugging at his own lips.

                "Hard to believe," he says, and Xander outright laughs.

                "Yeah.  Maybe that's what it looked like from his end, but...  She was just fighting for herself, ultimately.  Like we all were."  Xander shrugs - pushes his hands hard into the pockets of his jacket and looks up at the softly rustling leaves of the trees.  Spike wants to say that that's not right, but was he really fighting for anybody but himself?   Fighting for a last scrap of honor - for the vestiges of the man he'd once been.  He doesn't know, and shakes his head and tunes back in to what Xander is saying.

                "I miss her.  We weren't even - together there, at the end, but I still miss her.  I..."  Spike glances at him - sees the troubled frown and nods.

                 "Yeah.  I know,"  he says, and Xander subsides.

                "Anyway - they don't know what to do with me, either.  But I've got plans."

                "Yeah?" 

                "Yeah."  Xander pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to Spike, and Spike unfolds it; a flyer, printed on heavy, glossy paper.  A riotous mish-mash of skulls and flames and grinning devil-faces. 

'Joker's Wild' in jagged script. 

                "What in bloody hell is it?"  Spike asks, and Xander grins at him.

                "It's like - it's kind of like a circus and kind of like...a traveling side-show.  They do all kinds of stuff.  Fire-twirling and fire-eating and these crazy little skits and acrobatics and stuff...  Sort of 'Cirque du Soleil' meets 'Village of the Damned' or something."  Spike looks at the flyer - back up to Xander, and sees the pain that's there.

                "You're not a freak, mate.  You don’t belong in a sideshow."  Xander looks at him - shakes his head minutely.

                "No.  I mean - it's not the sideshow thing, it's just...  They travel all over, you know?  They set up at concerts and festivals and stuff - travel with different bands sometimes, do fairs and things...  I just want to - go, you know?   I want - I need - to just get out of here.  Just be someplace else for a while.  I can't work construction around here - I'm too much of an insurance risk, with this -" Gesture of one hand towards the eye patch, and Spike nods, watching him.  "And they don't care about that.  I mean - they need somebody who can fix stuff and build stuff and who isn't all - freaked out by JoJo the Amazing Dog-boy or whatever, you know?  I met some of the acrobats at a bar, couple weeks ago.  We just - we talked, and I really liked them and they - invited me."  Spike hears what's not being said; 'They wanted me, when no one else did...' and he understands that.   He nods again - offers the flyer back to Xander, who shakes his head.

                "Keep it.  They've got a website.  Maybe you can - track me down sometime.  I'd really like it if you...kept in touch."  Xander is looking at him, steady and serious, and Spike feels a welling of warmth in his chest.  Gratitude, and a little bit of amazement.

                "Sure, whelp."  Xander blinks, and Spike grins - shakes his head.  "I guess you're not that, anymore.  All grown up now, aren't you?"  Xander grins back - gestures to the patch.

                "Just call me Ahab," he says, and Spike laughs.

                "That's supposed to be 'Ishmael'."   Spike says, and gives Xander a long and considering look.  "Off to see the various parts of the world, then."

                "Yeah."  Xander looks up at the green lacery overhead, a small smile on his face, and Spike feels a sort of longing.  *See the world*  

                "I just can't stand to be...  I'm just done here, you know?  Done everything I could, and...  Time to move on."  Sadness is in that last bit, and Spike nods slowly.

                "You're right, you know," he says, and Xander looks at him, eyebrows going up in silent question.

"About them, up there.  Trying to decide what to do with the barmy old uncle who just won't go away.  Time for me to move on as well, I'd say."  With those words floating on the air between them, Spike feels a sudden and incredible - rightness.  A wave of relief.  He's leaving - moving on - getting on with things.  Leaving the pain behind, maybe.  Beside him, Xander reaches out and gently squeezes his shoulder.

                "Feels good, doesn't it,"  he says softly, and Spike nods.

                "Yeah.  First thing that's felt good...in a long time."   They sit silently after that, just...being, in the rapidly gathering gloom.  Finally, Xander stands and stretches - grins over at Spike.

                "You gonna come back up?"  Spike looks at the building looming over them - jumps up off the table and pushes his hands into the pockets of his duster, pushing the flyer down into the bottom of the deepest one.

                "Nah.  Think I'll just be on my merry way, Ishmael." 

                Xander laughs.  "I'll tell 'em you ran away to sea."  Spike gives him his patented smirk - feels it slip a bit, and Xander is suddenly serious.

                 "Be careful, Spike.  Just...be careful, ok?"  That dark eye, searching his face, and Spike reaches out and gently pushes back a lock of hair, smoothing it into the rest.

                 "You too, mate.  Thanks, Xander."

                "Yeah.  'Bye, Spike."  Xander ducks his head - smiles at him.  Turns and he's gone, back into the office tower and Spike stands for a moment in the darkness.  Then his head comes up, his shoulders go back, and he struts out of there - out of the courtyard and out of L.A., and out of California altogether.  Start of something new, and it feels good.

 

 

                "You don't want to do that, luv,"  Spike says, and the girl blinks at him - turns her carmined mouth down in a pout. 

                "But -"

                "You're just not built right.  Not quite enough flesh at the top, there.  But -"  Spike raises an eyebrow - quirks his lips just a little.  "You more than make up for that here."  He let's his hand just ghost over her chest - not quite touching the mountainous breasts that she's jammed into a stretchy sweater.  The girl blinks again - glances down at herself and then smiles.

                "You think?  I heard that really hurts."

                "No pain no gain, ducks.  So, you think both or just the one?"  The girl contemplates herself again - looks up at Spike who is, this week, sporting a crescent-shaped claw of matte-black metal through his septum.  Whose own piercings are easily seen, outlined against the black, ribbed material of the wife-beater he wears.  She lifts her head, gathering courage and straightening her spine.

                 "Both,"  she says, and Spike grins at her and pats her shoulder - hands her the clipboard with the release form to fill out and moves to the back of his room, setting up.  Truth be told, the girl is just too fat too get her navel pierced; the folds of flesh above and below would simply chafe the piercing into rawness and force it out in weeks.  Nipples are a better choice, plus they're twice what a navel costs.   Spike moves easily through his routine, setting out a sterile needle in its autoclave bag, setting out the 'claved jewelry and the Betadine and all the other things he uses.  Latex gloves, which he really doesn't like but it's how this is done, so he uses them.   The girl smiles up at him when he comes back to her, proffering the clipboard with her driver's license stuck under the clip, and the folded cash.  He takes both - makes a copy of the license and hands it back, staples the form and copy together and quickly scrawls jewelry size and price and quantity at the bottom - signs underneath.  Then they're ready, and the girl - Chloe - sits nervously in his chair. 

                "Those are kinda big, aren't they?"  she asks, spying the jewelry, and Spike grins.

                "You gotta go with what you got - big for big, Chloe.  Trust me, it'd look weird otherwise.  And this'll heal better."  She looks at him - at the jewelry - then firms her mouth and tugs at the bottom of her sweater, pulling it off.  The bra underneath is a push-up style, and Spike has her take it off.   He has her stand, hands at her side, so he can make the marks for entrance and exit even, and then they're ready.  It's over faster then she thinks it will be, and she sits there watching him put the needle in the Sharps container, watching him dispose of most everything on his worktop and spray the stainless steel down with a hospital-grade de-germer.  Her eyes are watering a bit, and her hands are shaking, but she did well, and after he washes the Latex powder off his hands, Spike digs into the oversize plastic Halloween demon-skull on his counter and pulls out a bright red Tootsie-Pop.  He hands it to her with a flourish.

                "You did just grand, luv,"  he says, and she giggles and takes the candy.  He pulls a folded paper from the full box at the other end of the counter and unfolds it, showing it to her.  After-care instructions or, as the paper says; 'Five Easy Steps to Not Fucking Up Your New Piercing'.  Tock's idea, and it always makes the client laugh.  He goes over the instructions with her, the rich scent of her blood heady in his nostrils.  She listens, her mouth pursed around the candy, eyes riveted on his.  Then he hands her the paper and stands - picks up the mirror that is silver-side to the wall and turns, holding it where she can see.  Her eyes widen and she stands up - arches her back a little and examines the new piercings. 

                 "Oh my god.  I can't believe I did it!  Moira's gonna be so jealous!"  Chloe turns from side to side, then suddenly seems to remember she's naked from the waist up and flushes a little.  Spike puts the mirror away - gestures to the door. 

                "You can have your friend in, before you get your shirt back on." 

                "Ooh - yeah!"  Chloe cracks the door - peeks out.  "Moira!  Moira, oh my god, come see!"  She backs up hastily as the slightly thinner Moira slips through, and then there is about three minutes of squealing and bouncing and giggling, and Spike shakes his head and waits, watching them.  Chloe dabs at a tiny bead of blood on the side of her left nipple and bites her lip a little, and Spike feels the demon stir.  Wanting.  *Soon* he tells it - soothing it unconsciously - and it slips back into the twilight it inhabits when it's not needed.  William doesn't even stir - he deliberately turns himself off when Spike is at work; his Victorian soul shrinking from the flesh and the language and the actual job, horrified and aroused and ashamed.  Spike lets him do that - lets him hide, even though it's Williams' hunger for touch that will drive them all out when he's done here.  William who will urge Spike to go to clubs or bars or concerts to find the blood he needs and to obtain it with seduction and sweet smiles and as much physical contact as possible.   Which is fine, because Spike craves the touch as much as William does, and doesn't mind at all, not at all.    Only the demon is unhappy with this arrangement, but it gets what it craves, as well, on other nights when Spike is just as happy to rip to shreds as he is to kiss. 

                Chloe gently eases her sweater down over her breasts - looks down at the rings of steel that make obvious circles and giggles.  Then she reaches into her purse and pulls out something - puts it in the jar that sits on Spike's counter.  A twenty.  *Nice tip for a working girl*   Spike thinks.  Chloe is a telemarketer.

                "Wow, this was really so cool.  You are just the best, Spike," she says, and comes up to him - hugs him carefully.  They do this a lot, his clients, and Spike doesn't mind.  She grabs a handful of his business cards from the holder and waves them in the air. 

                "I will definitely be telling people where I got this done."

                "Thanks luv,"  Spike says, ushering her out, and she and her friend are through the door, going down the L-shaped staircase that leads to his room.  The rest of the shop - three tattoo stations and a large waiting area - are down and to the right, and you have to climb five steps, cross a tiny landing, and climb four more steps to get to his room.  He's neatly tucked away in this corner, out of direct line of every mirror in the place and the big plate-glass windows in the front, as well.  The door that leads back to the employee's only area - store room, 'clave room, break area, bathroom and fire exit - is right at the foot of his stairs.  He feels safe in his lair. 

                The shop is crowded - the air thick with the pulsing dance-mix that Tock favors -and the noise level is deafening.  Spike stands on the landing and looks around - sees the floor manager and nods.  She nods back - makes her way through the crowd to a lean, dread-locked boy in baggy cargo pants and Limp Bizkit t-shirt.  His next client.  Spike flexes his hands and grins, and goes back into his room.

 

                Five in the morning, and sunrise still over two hours off.  It doesn't really matter, though, because Seattle is a dark city - a city of rain and clouds and heavy overcast that lasts for a week, sometimes.  It's a lot like the London Spike remembers, and it makes him feel...safe, this darkness.  Nothing like the unrelenting sun of the Hellmouth.  Spike leans against a damp brick wall, letting the larger, auburn-haired man that he's kissing pin him down.  Letting the heat of a living body soak into him.  He's lost his shirt somewhere, in the club, and the man's hands rub over his chest - tug at the matte-black rings the vampire has through his nipples; moaning into Spike's mouth as Spike deftly undoes button and zipper and slides his hands inside the tight jeans.  The man is erect - eager - and Spike lets him take charge - lets himself be pushed down, until he's crouching on his heels, the brick cold against his back.  He wastes no time in putting his mouth around the mans' cock - in sucking and pulling and kneading the furnace-hot flesh until the man is groaning and arching and coming, hands in Spike's hair and his face turned up to the sky, breath just visible in the chill.  The mist, that is trying hard to become rain, slicks the man's face and draggles his hair.  But he's still handsome, even like this - jeans around muscled thighs and a dumpster ten paces away.  Spike slides up the man's body - catches the still-open mouth in a hard kiss and the man melts into him.

                "Oh man -"  he breathes, and then Spike is turning him, pushing him into the wall, his turn now, and the man shudders, head low between his shoulders.   Spike gets his own jeans open - gets a condom out of the back pocket and rolls it on.  Most won't do it, unless he uses protection, but he doesn't mind.   With his free hand he caresses the tense muscles of the man's belly and chest - pushes between pale buttocks.  The man moans again - arches back - and Spike pushes inside, grateful for lubricated condoms that make this less messy and much, much easier.  He thrusts in, gasping at the heat, and his hands are on the man's shoulders, pulling him back tight, his mouth on the fragrant skin of the man's throat.  Sweat and smoke and some musky cologne, and Spike trails his tongue over the delicious skin - over the thudding pulse that's just there.  He bites down lightly with his human teeth, and the man makes an eager noise - pushes back.  Spike has found that place, inside him, and now the man is fucking back as hard as Spike is fucking him, half-hard and jacking himself to another orgasm.   Spike licks at the taut flesh of the man's throat, feeling the blood pulsing underneath - changes and sinks his fangs in deeply.  Third time tonight and he's feeling good.  The man cries out hoarsely, head down and legs straining, coming against the brick, fingers clawing at the rough surface.   Spike drinks and drinks - just enough, not too much, and he's coming as well, deep as he can get, his chest plastered to the man's back, reveling in the warmth.    They both groan - their bodies slow and finally stop - and Spike gently slips his fangs out.  He reverts to his human face to nuzzle into the auburn hair and strong neck - the soft edge of a worn chambray work-shirt.  He moves just enough, slipping out, and in a minute the condom is in the dumpster and Spike's jeans are closed.  The other is still leaning on the wall, breathing hard, and Spike turns him gently and fixes the other's pants - smoothes the dark blue shirt.

                "Did you bite me?"  The man asks, a little dazed, and Spike licks his lips.

                "Just a little...sorry?"

                "S'okay.  Felt good."  The man is a little drunk - a lot post-coital hazed - and Spike doesn't think he'd object to anything much, right now.

                "Let's get you a cab, eh mate?" he says, and the man grins at him - slings his arm around Spike's naked shoulders and they weave up the alley to the front of the club.  Spike gets the man inside - gets the bouncer on the phone for a cab and then slips away.  He gets his coat from the coat-check girl and shrugs it on.  Same old duster, a little the worse for wear.  The motorcycle boots are new, though - he'd traded his Docs to some punk in Saigon; traded them for a half-hour in a back room and blood sweet and rich as cream.  The punk had watched him, sprawled naked on a mattress, his black eyes sultry and knowing, and Spike had taken the boys ratty sandals and gone out, shedding another bit of his past and all the lighter for it.  The duster is the only thing he can't seem to shed - even in the steaming heat of Vietnam he'd wanted it, and had finally boxed it up and sent it to a demon he knew in San Francisco - someone who could hold it for him, no questions asked.  When he'd got back to the states, it had been like coming home; slipping that cool, heavy weight over his shoulders, and he'd been so glad he'd kept it.  Old/new hair, too.   He's gone back to his punk days.  Bleached moon-white and got up in soft, tangled spikes all over.  The girl at the store, handing him some hair product or another, called it the 'just got fucked in the back seat of Daddy's car' look, and Spike likes that.

                Now he goes outside again, walking the long blocks home.  He's in the free-ride zone, but he doesn't mind walking - sometimes he runs into something that needs killed, or someone else he can tap for a pint or two.  And the air here smells good - sea smell and wood and damp brick, fish and spices and the fresh breeze off the Sound.  He's got an apartment in the International District - something like Chinatown and Little Saigon and Hong Kong all rolled into one.  After the time he spent in the East, he's comfortable there.  He likes to listen to his neighbors talk - the strangely bird-like dialects from all over Asia.   They seem to know he is - something different - and they don't bother him.  He crosses Jackson Street and grins happily up at the fire-red dragon that winds around the light-pole there.  Almost home, and he's ready to be there.  His building is red brick with ornate metal balconies and a pagoda-style roof that's been renovated in the last decade.  He fishes in his pocket for his keys and nods to the old man who is emerging, turtle-like, from the house next door, armed with a broom and a folding chair.   Always the first one out, that old man, to sweep the sidewalk in front of his building and watch the neighborhood come to life.  The man nods back and Spike puts the key in the lock - opens the vestibule door and goes to the row of metal mailboxes.  A letter, and Spike grins and bounds lightly up three stories to his place.  It's tiny, his apartment.  Sitting room with the kitchen off to the right, bedroom in the back with the bathroom accessible only through the bedroom.  Basically a big square that's been portioned into rooms, with windows down the left-hand walls.  Three big ones in the living room and one in the bedroom.  None in the kitchen or bath - those walls connect to other apartments.  He'd found the company that made that special glass, that the Wolfram and Hart building had, and so he doesn't need to muffle his windows up in heavy drapes.  He has drapes, because sometimes he likes to be private, but it's nice, too, to stand in the warmth that manages to come through the tinting and the glass and watch the daily life of his neighborhood spool out below him like a PBS documentary.