| Note: The song reference is "Send In The Clowns" by Frank Sinatra. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- *Crash* Spike looked behind himself with satisfaction. The crunch and crash of the battered "Leaving Sunnydale" sign soothed his ruffled feelings like nothing else had for the past two nights. Jamming his foot down on the accelerator, he aimed the car toward Los Angeles, away from the Slayer, away from the Slayer's friends, her pesky kid sister and most of all away from the feelings of inadequacy and anger that had haunted the recent months. The night before he'd found the Slayer and her little gang of toothless puppies in the cemetery. He'd been walking through, searching for a demon or two to let some frustration out, when he'd walked right into one of their little raiding parties. His first instinct was to walk over and lend a hand, until he saw their faces, looked into their eyes. The witches were decent, he'd give them that, eyes cast downward, perhaps recognizing that he had emotions, however much they disapproved, but the boy didn't even bother to look away. The mocking look, the laughter, scored through him, and it seemed as though decades old laughter intermingled with it. He'd turned and walked away. Shaking off the less than palatable memory, he lit a cigarette, welcoming the acrid warmth to chase away the bitter feelings. "William the Bloody, adieu. Spike, full speed ahead." He plastered a cocky grin on his face, determined to regain his cool, snapping on the radio, eighties punk flowing out in a raucous symphony, a lullaby of anger. Pushing the memory of Drusilla's final glance aside, he concentrated on the notion of finding her, slaughtering with her, until by the time he hit the outer limits of L.A., she'd attained the patina of salvation. She'd rescue him from his self induced mediocrity again. Parking on the street, right in the heart of the demon district, Spike stepped out, wiggling his shoulders, pushing away the teasing, wistful thoughts of Buffy, putting the lid on the possibilities. Shouldering his way into the throng, he savoured the feeling of anonymity, his sense of urgency dwindling as he made his way through the mix of demons and vampires, finally choosing a bar at random to perhaps drown his troubles Walking in the door, he felt some of the bottled up tension seep out of his body. The bar managed to be gaudy and dim all at once, and he noticed a preponderance of odd little drinks topped with umbrellas, while good old fashioned beers appeared few and far between. Stepping on over to the bar, he ordered a Guiness, watching and summing up his surroundings, in no hurry to find anyone or anything other than his next beer. He was a little shocked when the first set of demons took the stage, sneering at the idea of a demon karaoke bar. Muttering to himself about dignity and their lack thereof, he prepared to chug his beer and find someplace a little less ludicrous. He choked on the last swallow when he heard a teasing little chuckle from above his head. "Isn't he just the most sombre little darling?" Spike's eyes dragged upward in horrified fascination, examining what just had to be the host of this strange little club. His skin was tinted a delicate green, while his satiny shirt and pants were a bright shade of purple that oddly harmonized with his colouring. Small word bubbles formed and were discarded as the figure took the liberty of sitting down next to him. Spike jumped as the host clapped his fingers, requesting a Seabreeze from one of the uniformed waiters. He scootched away as this strange demon slid nearer to him, an inquisitive gaze raking across his face. "Oh, but no. My mistake, sweetie. Not sombre at all." The host shook his head in seeming sorrow. "So dreadfully wounded, so *lost*." He made little tsk tsk sounds as he faced Spike. Spike's eyebrows slid upward to nearly meet his hairline as he sagged into the chair, finally finding his voice. "Who the bloody hell are *you*?" A gentle hand patted him on the forearm, while the other beckoned to the stage. "It's my stage, hon." Old, faintly wise eyes looked into his. "They come to seek their fortunes, and oh my, yes indeed, I'm here to tell them." He saw the host peering intently into the current singers, as he breathed out another "Oh my". A faintly swishy movement made him think of an elderly gypsy woman, about to whisper the bitter vagaries of fate in a voice tinted with laughter.A couple hours later, Spike knew that they'd chatted, he vaguely remembered the tinkling laughter, amused but never mocking. He knew that he'd listened more than he'd talked, and that he'd consumed several more perfect bottles of Guiness. He even realized that the Host did indeed see things in the singers. What he quite clearly did *not* know was why he was standing on the stage, white words scrolling across a teleprompter, about to make like he was Contestant Number Three on some silly MTV television show. He'd chosen Sinatra over his immediate impulse to take some Sex Pistols or perhaps the Ramones. Paging through the list of available songs, one in particular caught his attention, seeming only too appropriate. Hell, it wasn't like there was anyone around to question or mock his choice. Spike took a deep breath, belting out the song, the bittersweet words about two people in different parts of their lives, wanting different things, touching him. As he approached the end, he blinked unwelcome tears away. "Just when I stopped opening doors Finally finding the one that I wanted - was yours Making my entrance again with my usual flair Sure of my lines - nobody there Don't you love a farce; my fault I fear I thought that you'd want what I want - sorry my dear But where are the clowns - send in the clowns Don't bother they're here" As he finished, he snapped out of his haze, he lifted his chin, plastered one of his all purpose 'I don't care' looks on his face and walked down the steps of the stage to where the host was waiting for him. He pulled one of the chairs in front of him, straddling it and grabbing his beer in one fluid moment. Spike stared defiantly at the demon. "So, what do I have to do to win the girl, mate?" His question was met with head shaking and a pitying look. "Dearie, I'm not a matchmaker or a lonelyhearts kinda guy. Although you might want to seek one of those out, cause I'm seeing some big old flaming *wreckage* in your world." Spike started to growl. "Hush now, you impatient little thing. I'm not saying that I don't have anything at all to say. I can tell you one thing, if you're serious about this whole being good thing, it'll go a lot easier on you." He leaned in, a look of concern on his face. "You'll never find your salvation in a bloodbath." He chuckled. "Oh, you'll have lots of fun of course, but you won't be really happy." Spike nodded. "So, I should be with the Slayer then? Keep after her til I wear her down?" The host sighed. "Such a literal boy, aren't you? You're so many different people, darling, and yet no one all at once. Maybe you should try doing what you think is right, rather than what you think someone *else* will think is right, hmmm?" Spike looked at him in disbelief. "I sang bloody Frank Sinatra for *this*?" "You sang... bloody Frank Sinatra, what a gruesome thought, dearie, because he spoke to you. Now, don't you want to be getting home to your destiny?" Clearly satisfied, the host moved away to observe the next act. Spike sat there for a moment, staring at the gaudily colored retreating figure. Drinking the last few gulps of beer, he set the bottle down on the table and walked out of the bar. Sliding into his car, he considered trying to find Drusilla, and then finally shrugged, turning the car around to head back to Sunnydale. The End |